“Huh?” Obviously Roger is just as confused by this as I am.
Stepping out from behind the tall man is a squat, dumpy man, about five foot two, wearing a khaki pants that clearly are two sizes too small and a button-down polo shirt. His receding hairline and red bulbous nose ring a bell with me. He is the other guy I saw with Jerry in the vending machine alcove a few days ago. The Danny DeVito type. For the purpose of this story, I will call him Danny from now on. What can I say; I lack originality.
He is clearly the source of the voice as he continues to squawk at Jerry and Mario, while stepping forward into the mud, hitching up his pant legs. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago and...sweet baby Jesus, who are these two?”
“They got in the way, boss,” Jerry says, sounding contrite.
“Got in the way? Got in the way?” Danny glances from Jerry to Mario, who are both looking like they want to run away until they reach Mexico. Danny waddles over to me and Roger, peering up at both of us (I guess I’m on a hill, because nobody on this planet is shorter than I am). He inspects us from head to toe and then whirls around to face our captors, spraying mud in the air—it splatters Roger’s shirt. I silently beg him not to complain.
“How, pray tell, does a suburban couple get in the way?” Danny face resembles an overly ripe tomato at the moment. I’m curious to see if seeds will come spurting out if it bursts.
“Well you see, this one,” Jerry waves at me with the barrel of his gun, “was wandering around in the alley before the exchange. We had to get them out of there before Paulie showed up.” He smiles and ducks behind me, possibly hoping that Danny is completely relieved by the explanation and he forgives him for his mistake. Or maybe so he can use me as a human shield.
Danny’s face does not lighten up at this explanation. In fact, if anything, it turns a shade or two darker. “So by get them out of there, you mean you stuck them on a boat and brought them here? Of all places?”
Jerry seems to be at a loss for words. I can hear his uneven breathing and feel the labored puffs of air on my neck. “Well boss, what else were we supposed to do with them?”
Danny rolls his eyes in his fat little head. “Uh, duh, kill ‘em?”
I gasp. Not that I didn’t figure this out already, but it sounds super harsh the way Danny just lays it out there.
Roger reaches for my hand and squeezes it hard. I forget that I’m supposed to be mad at him, and I squeeze back. Danny pulls a gun out of his pocket and points it at his own head. “You know like, bam, bam, you’re dead? Isn’t that what I gave you the gun for? It certainly wasn’t to go squirrel hunting or whatever crap you used to do down in Alabama with your cousin Jimmy Joe.”
“I don’t have a cousin Jimmy Joe,” Jerry mutters, causing Danny seethe even more.
“Is that the point, you idiot? I ought to blow your shit for brains head off your shoulders.” He shakes the gun in Jerry’s direction.
Roger and I jump, certain that he is going to blow us into oblivion in his efforts to shoot Jerry, but instead, he waves his hand toward the house. “Stick ‘em there,” he says with an audible sigh.
Jerry shoves me forward, “Yes, boss.” I can feel him sigh with relief.
I trip over the uneven terrain as we enter the house. Or rather, hut. The floor is dirt, with a rug thrown here and there. I’m not sure if it’s to create a homey effect or simply for warmth and someplace to sit. Because apparently, there is nothing else in this hut except for a very expensive laptop and a few cardboard boxes strewn around. Actually, it’s more like a ton of cardboard boxes and they all look like they have passports in them.
Weird...how many passports do three people need? Or four if you count fig leaf boy.
Then, it dawns on me. Whatever sketchy activity this group is up to, they must need to change their identities. They must have all these passports in case they have to jump a plane quickly. Then, with shocking clarity, I recall what the guy in the airport had said to me about children missing and the interest that Jerry and Danny had shown in my “missing child”. Dang it! They must be kidnapping children! Maybe to use as drug mules!
I bite my trembling lip as I attempt to reason with myself. Okay, Amy isn’t that what you thought about Mary and Walter when you discovered that Sean was living with them? And it didn’t turn out to be true then and it’s probably not true now.
“Put them over there,” Danny growls, pointing to the dusty corner. I swear I see a daddy long legs swing across the room. So of course, I let out an ear-piercing screech. Jerry promptly clamps a hand over my mouth.
“Shut up, would ya?” He is clearly agitated, but not nearly as much as Danny is.
“Jesus H. Christ! You see now why it would have been a good idea to leave them behind? She’s screaming and hollering and someone’s bound to hear and start investigatin’!”
He is pacing the length of the tiny room, throwing his hands around in the air. His tomato face is leaking tomato juice. Actually, pacing is too mild of a word. Stomping about is more accurate.
“You mean kill them back at the resort, boss?” Mario asks. Apparently our friend Mario is a little slow on the uptake. Danny hops and smacks him on the back of the head with his hand.
“Yeah, you idiot!” He shakes his head with disgust. “Well, we don’t have time for that now. And it’ll make too much noise.” He turns to the guy with the fig leaf and starts clucking in a foreign language. It sounds like his tongue is smacking everywhere. The native guy starts clucking back and nodding his head in agreement. They carry on this conversation for a minute or so and then Danny bobs his head firmly, ending the conversation.
“Come on,” he says to his henchmen, shoving them forward. “We need to get back to the resort so you can get the package.”
“What about them, boss?” Mario asks, jerking his head toward me and Roger.
Yeah, boss. What about them?
“They’ll stay here.” He glowers at us. “No funny business. Waynedell has a spear and he won’t hesitate to use it.” Danny warns, waving his gun around. I stare at the incredibly imposing, nearly naked man in the door way. Waynedell? The guy’s name is Waynedell? Sounds like a comedian or something.
And then, as if a thought just occurred to him, Danny points the gun at Mario and Jerry. “You two tie their hands and feet so they can’t go nowhere. There’s rope next to them boxes.”
Low and behold, there is. Along with a Keurig. I wonder for a second what the coffee machine gets plugged into, but then, Mario approaches me with the rope. I grimace as he pushes my hands together and begins to wind the rope around the wrists.
I guess I am lucky enough to have Mario tying my hands. He may be the stronger of the two men, but he’s definitely the nicer of the pair. His eyes flash apologetically at me as he ties the rope just tight enough to hold, but not so restricting that my hands get numb. And he ties my hands in front of me, which is a lot more comfortable than behind my back. Trust me. I’ve had my hands tied before—and no, not in a kinky way, you pervs—and in front of your body hurts a heck of a lot less.
I gather from Roger’s moans, groans, and yelps of pain, that he being bound painfully. “Hey, watch it! I’m an upstanding member of the community! Not some thug you met on the street corner!”
Right, Roger. Because that matters to these guys.
“Let’s go,” Danny barks impatiently. “The sun will be coming up in a few short hours and we need to get this done.”
Mario and Jerry follow Danny out of the hut, leaving me and Roger alone with Waynedell, his spear, and our wild imaginations.
~Eighteen~
I float into the sidewalk cafe in Milan, the brilliant sun nearly blinding me as the glass in the door reflects the light. In the corner of the room, three women sit around a small table, sipping cappuccino and nibbling on biscuits. One of the women is Victoria, wearing a flowery summer dress and a hat that my Aunt Mildred would wear to church. I find myself curious about their conversation, so I wander closer,
within earshot.
“Well naturally Roger would leave all his money to me. He was planning to leave Amy for ages. The poor dear was absolutely clueless!” Victoria says, covering her mouth before emitting a high-pitched giggle. The two other women around the table join her in a good natured laugh.
“Oh, but seriously,” the oldest of the trio interrupts after they snicker for a few more minutes, “didn’t you feel the teensy bit sorry for her?”
Victoria shakes her recently coiffed head. “Absolutely not! It’s her fault that Roger was driven into the arms of another woman.”
“How’s that?" The third woman asks after taking a sip from her steaming mug of frothy goodness. I’m certain that I would love a sip of it—if I wasn’t dead and a ghost and all.
“Simple. She ignored Roger’s needs, she was an incredible nag, and she let herself go after having kids. Roger told me how fat she got from just lying around all day eating bon-bons. And…” She drops her voice, causing the other two women to lean in closer to hear. “She was always behind with the laundry. Once Roger had to wear dirty underwear to work because she forgot to take the clothes out of the washer for three days and all his underwear got moldy.”
The other women gasp and cover their mouths with their hands.
“How horrid!” the older woman says.
“It’s a good thing she’s dead!’ the younger one adds.
“But it’s a pity about Roger, getting killed on that horrid vacation and all,” the first lady adds, causing all three to lower their heads in solemn remembrance for him.
“But…” Victoria says with a glint in her eye, “it’s not a pity that this lunch is on me! And this vacation! And this shopping spree!” She waves a credit card in the air and they all giggle again.
I clench my fists at my side, furious that Victoria is going to profit from my death. And then I remember...I am a ghost. I can’t wait until she gets home and I can start to haunt her every single night of her life.
“This is a fine kettle of fish you’ve gotten us into, Amy,” Roger whispers into my ear.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only Roger would find himself being held prisoner in a hut, with life flashing before his eyes, and using clichés like “fine kettle of fish”. Who even talks like that anyway?
“Oh shut up, Roger,” I snap back. “It’s not just my fault. This is partly on you, too.”
Roger wrinkles up his forehead in disbelief. “This is my fault? How on earth is this my fault? You’re the one who was snooping...again.”
I sit up straighter—which, believe me, is a little difficult with a spear pointed directly at your chest—before I retort, “Oh come on, Roger! How was I supposed to ignore all those clues?”
“Clues? There were no clues! You’re just crazy!”
I ignore him and change the subject. “I told you something bad would happen if we all went on vacation together. I felt it in my gut. If you had just let me go on vacation alone—”
Roger immediately pouts. “Well, I’m hurt by that statement. I thought you would love a chance to spend time with your family. Spend time with me. I try to do something nice and you never appreciate it.”
“Did you read the travel brochure thoroughly, Roger? Because even if I wanted some good old-fashioned family time, this certainly wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Well this isn’t what I planned either, Amy,” Roger stammers. “I’m pretty sure that being held captive by a spear wielding native with a fig leaf covering his privates, was not in the brochure!” He jerks his head in the general direction of our captor.
The native grumbles in an indecipherable language, shoving the spear closer to Roger’s fleshy middle.
“I wouldn’t upset him if I were you,” I tell my husband. “He can take you from a size forty-two waist to the twenty-eight inch waist you’ve been dreaming of since we met.”
“Okay, that’s hurtful. And you still haven’t explained to me what you were snooping around in a dark alley for. Didn’t the kids tell you that we were meeting for dinner at six o’clock? What the hell were you doing back there anyway?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I guess now is the time I have to come clean and tell him I know about Victoria. The thought makes me want to hurl again. Just spit it out, Amy.
“Well, if you hadn’t been carrying on with that floozy, I wouldn’t have been snooping to begin with!” Yes, I’m not proud to admit, I said floozy. Apparently I am channeling my mother. I gulp as I realize that my mother is in the same position that I am...except she has no idea about my father’s no-good cheating ways. And I won’t be around to tell her, either.
Roger is staring at me with his mouth open. “What’s the matter?” I snap. “You didn’t think I’d find out about her?” I give him a smug and satisfied smile. “You forget I have investigative experience.”
Roger shakes his head. “Amy, you accidentally stumbled on a drug sting, nearly getting yourself and our daughter killed. And if that wasn’t bad enough, twelve months later, you listened to your psychotic sister instead of calling the cops when her daughter disappeared, and ended up in the trunk of her lover’s car. I hardly call that investigative work. It’s more like snooping and bad luck."”
I am momentarily stymied by his response. It almost sounds like he's being snarky. I didn’t think he had it in him. But I have no patience for his newly found sarcasm.
“That still doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been cheating on me!” I bite my lip, trying to hold back tears.
Roger shakes his head and wrinkles up his nose. If I squint, he almost resembles Colt when he makes the same face when he’s confused. Oh my poor Colt. I feel like a stake has been driven through my heart as a surge of tears break free. My poor kids. They’re going to grow up without a mother AND father now. Beth will have to raise them. Not that I doubt she’ll do a good job but...ugh, she won’t ever let them have sweets. Or fun.
“Amy, don’t cry! Damn it, why are you crying? I never cheated on you! I don’t know where you got that idea from,” Roger pleads as he scoots closer to me on the floor. I turn my head and look away. Just seeing his face makes me spitting mad. And horrifyingly sad. The spear is poking dangerously close to his face, but he ignores it. “Amy, look at me.”
I shake my head. “There’s nothing you can say or do to change what you did. Maybe we could have worked it out, but we’ll never know. Now we will end up dying, hating each other.”
“Hating each other? Hating each other? Why would I ever hate you?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. But you must hate me to be sleeping with that bimbo.”
“What bimbo?” Roger sounds like he does when he steps barefoot on one of Colt’s Legos in the middle of the night. “Amy, I seriously have no clue what you’re talking about!”
I whip my head around, my eyes flashing with fury. His head jerks slightly—he’s taken aback by my sudden move. So is my friend with the spear. He moves it off of Roger and onto me.
I ignore him and shout, “I saw you with her, Roger! Just before! You gave her flowers! And a hug! And she was all gushy when she came to our table the other night!”
Roger’s face turns purple and he sucks in a mouthful of air. “Oh my God," he mumbles. I swear I think his eyes roll into the back of his head. I stare at him smugly, knowing he is trapped and I have caught him. But then, he starts laughing.
“What the hell are you laughing about?” I snap, wishing I had my hands free so I could deck him in his pompous face.
“You! I can’t believe…” He is laughing so hard at this point that he’s practically gasping for air.
“I’m so glad that you think cheating on me is hysterical. So happy to be the butt of your joke. Too bad you won’t be able to share my gullibility with your girlfriend because we’ll be dead,” I remark grumpily. “Although, I must say, I was hoping for some sort of apology.”
“I’m sorry,” Roger gasps, still chuckling.
“I’m not accepting your
apology,” I huff. He really thinks he can just mock me and I’ll be so willing to say, oh okay, no problem? Nineteen years of marriage and he doesn’t know me at all!
“I’m not apologizing for cheating on you,” Roger informs me.
“Oh, so you think I should be perfectly cool with it? I shouldn’t expect a fair amount of groveling on your part?’ I am absolutely incensed. If we weren’t dead where we stand (or sit), I would consider killing him for his impertinence.
“No. I’m not apologizing for cheating on you, because I didn’t cheat on you,” Roger says with a smirk.
Now my blood is boiling, and I feel the vein on the side of my forehead getting ready to explode. “I know I’m just a housewife to you, Roger, but I’m not as stupid as I look,” I spit, throwing his words back in his face. “I saw you with her. And you were all nervous when she came up to you at the restaurant, like you were up to no good. Not to mention, I heard you talking on the phone to her, saying how hard it was to get rid of me and apologizing for missing your date with her.”
Roger shakes his head. “Okay, so you saw me with her, but I was never on the phone with her. I don’t know where you got that…” And then it looks like a light bulb goes off in his head, and Roger starts to laugh again.
“What is so God damned funny?”
“You,” Roger wheezes between laughs. “You’re hysterical. I can’t believe how wrong you got it!”
I have absolutely had it. “You are an asshole of epic proportions. I can’t believe I married you. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here and divorce your sorry ass. I’m gonna take you for everything you’ve got.” I jerk my head at the spear welding native who is staring at us, mouth hanging open. “In case you’re wondering, it’s not much,” I inform the native. “But I’ll be damned if his girlfriend gets all of it.”
“Amy!” Roger shouts. “She’s not my girlfriend!”
“You just admitted that—”
Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense Page 16