Painless

by Derek Ciccone

  Billy’s gas was dangerously low, so he didn’t want to leave the area. He just wanted to lose the guy and call the police. He searched for his cell phone, but remembered he’d left it back at the cottage, and pounded the steering wheel again in anger.

  Billy maneuvered into the far left lane of the northbound I-95. The motorcycle was still glued to his ass like a magnet to a refrigerator. Billy had an idea, but not enough time to determine if it was bold or stupid. He cut the wheel sharply to the right, and his vehicle spun a one-eighty. They skidded across all lanes like a derailed train—facing the wrong way!

  Cars rushed at him like a video game, with horns honking and tires squealing. Billy regained his bearings and insanely headed south in the northbound lane. A tractor-trailer skidded a symphony of air-brakes, trying to avoid the wrong-way Cherokee, but it was too late. Billy knew it was a collision he wouldn’t win. The choice was beat the truck to the exit ramp or their next stop would be Sesame Street.

  Billy shut his eyes, hoping Chuck and Beth would someday forgive his memory, and hit the accelerator.

  The Cherokee shot horizontally across the highway, and swerved off the exit ramp they had just passed going the other way, almost tipping. Billy literally felt the Cherokee shake when eighteen-wheeler whizzed by, but was too shaken to let out a sigh of relief.

  With the smell of burning rubber still fresh, the Cherokee came to a stop at the end of the exit ramp. He looked back, expecting Carolyn to be terrified. But received a refresher course on her genetic fearlessness. “That was fun!” she exclaimed.

  “If you say so,” Billy said, voice shaking, and patting himself to make sure he was still alive.

  “This is the way to Stew Leonard’s. Are we going there? Is that the surprise?” she asked with excitement.

  “There is no surprise, Carolyn.”

  “They got a petting zoo and strawberry milk at Stew Leonard’s!”

  “Please be quiet and let me think,” he said, pondering his next move.

  “Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.”

  “Carolyn!”

  “You’re no fun today.”

  Billy turned around to voice his displeasure with her attitude. But when he did, his eyes leaked out the back window and saw the motorcycle speeding down the exit ramp, coming at them like a missile.

  “Hold on,” Billy said, veering the car onto East Avenue. Carolyn had nothing to hold on to, but took him literally, extending her arms straight out to grip an imaginary bar.

  The motorcycle followed. Their speed built. Billy ran a stoplight, hoping to be stopped by the cops. No such luck. He ran another, and a six-car pile-up almost occurred. The screeching tires and honking horns faded into the background as Billy fled the scene, but they couldn’t shake the robotic motorcycle that continued to relentlessly pursue.

  Chapter 35

  Billy made a sharp left onto Cemetery Road—ironic in their current situation—and then a right onto Gregory. The race continued. But then water suddenly appeared from both sides of the road.

  Carolyn shouted, “Look—boats!”

  Billy felt sick. He recognized where they were—the marina where the boat was launched for Grandma Beverly’s “going away” party. The Long Island Sound blocking them from the front, while the motorcycle chased them from the rear. They were trapped!

  “We’re going to the beach! That’s the surprise!”

  Billy felt the dagger of Carolyn’s words. He had no other option than to go pedal to the metal. He would drive into the water if that’s what it took to keep her safe.

  He careened through the entrance of Calf Pasture Beach, bouncing over a lawn area, scraping park benches, and luckily missing the stout trunks of the large oak trees that lined the entrance. Nobody was there on an overcast day in the first week in October. If it were August, he would’ve easily killed twenty people.

  Billy was at another dead end. The Cherokee thrust onto the sandy beach and pulled what Billy’s high school buddies used to refer to as a “hole shot.” Sand sprayed everywhere as Carolyn blissfully giggled.

  Billy had no plan, except to try to beat the intruder to the punch. He jumped out of the vehicle, the smell of ocean filling his lungs. He ran toward the motorcycle, which had skidded to a more graceful stop. As he did, he noticed the gunshot wound on the intruder’s upper shoulder, just as Chuck avowed.

  “You leave her alone!” Billy’s shout cut through the salty air. “What do you want?”

  The intruder acted as if Billy wasn’t there. Like a robot, he ran right by him and toward the backseat of the Cherokee, where Carolyn was strapped in. In a crazed state, the intruder pounded the window until it shattered. His hand was decorated with blood and glass, but he didn’t seem at all fazed.

  Billy lunged at him, his feet slipping in the sand. But was able to keep his balance just enough to make his first football tackle in years. Completely focused on Carolyn, the intruder didn’t notice him until he was on his back.

  “Run Carolyn!” Billy shouted, trying to hold the intruder down.

  She attentively followed his orders. She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door and hopped out, then ran to a spot about ten feet away.

  Billy wrestled with the intruder on the ground. He was strong, but so was Billy. They both fought with inhuman tenacity. Billy grabbed a piece of jagged glass and slit the intruder’s arm. The intruder didn’t even flinch, and karate-chopped Billy’s wrist, causing him to drop the glass.

  They wrestled to a standstill before Billy got some assistance from the Healing Angel of Pain. He glanced up to witness Carolyn kicking the intruder with all her might, and shouting, “Leave Billy alone!”

  “I told you to run, Carolyn!” Billy shouted back at her.

  She flashed a “that’s the thanks I get?” look, but listened, and ran back to temporary safety. Billy took advantage of the distraction to pummel the intruder in the face with the punches he was saving for Senator LaRoche. He then picked him up by his tank top and continued pounding him. The intruder’s eyes swelled and the nose bled, but the punches didn’t seem to be having the affect they should. Billy discarded his dazed opponent on the beach, and shouted in Carolyn’s direction, “Let’s go!”

  Like an army private obeying the order of a superior officer, she sprinted to him in her awkward kid running style, arms and legs flailing. He again tossed her into the back. No comments this time. “Buckle up,” he demanded as he peeled out in the sand.

  Billy sped toward the beach entrance. Then his stomach dropped. The intruder was right beside him, on the motorcycle.

  “I’m not trying to take her—I’m trying to save her,” Billy heard him shout.

  He thought of the zealots Jordan talked of, who might actually believe they were saving Carolyn by abducting her. Billy knew this psycho wouldn’t stop until he got Carolyn. Again Billy got bold. It was the fourth quarter and time for the Hail Mary, or whatever cheesy football cliché fit the situation. He hit the breaks and the intruder flew by. The classic military tactic he learned from Top Gun. By the time the intruder realized what happened, Billy was headed right toward him. “Close your eyes, Carolyn!” he yelled.

  As usual, she listened, placing her tiny hands over her eyes.

  It was kill or be killed. This time Billy was going to pull the trigger. He hit the motorcycle straight on, cringing at the sound of crunching metal. Billy didn’t look back until they reached the beach entrance.

  When he did glance into the rear-view mirror, he was again shocked by what he saw. The very much alive intruder was running after them on foot! They sped away—the silhouette of the man becoming smaller and smaller.

  But it didn’t feel like they were getting further away.

  Chapter 36

  They say you should never run away from your problems, and nobody knew this better than Billy. But Tuesday morning, he joined Dana and the Whitcombs in spitting in the face of logic, and headed to Chuck’s hunting cabin on Lake George.

  Chu
ck led the two-car caravan in his pickup, while Billy and Dana followed them in the Cherokee. An October chill was in the air, so Billy wore a heavy flannel shirt and jeans. Dana tried to keep things normal, wearing a fashionable pleaded skirt with, of course, heels.

  Billy still wasn’t sure what to make of Dana since the “radio incident,” and remained perplexed as to why she hadn’t shared what she learned with Chuck and Beth. But she appeared to be more ally than enemy, and at the very least was less apprehensive than the last time they were in a vehicle together. So Billy wasn’t complaining.

  She had done some digging since then, and with help of an old boyfriend, an investigative reporter for the Washington Post, she began connecting the dots. On their four-hour journey upstate, she was acting as if she was Billy’s lawyer and was making his case to the jury. At each interval she paused, like she were waiting for him to provide her a reasonable enough explanation that would clear his name. But to her disappointment, he refused.

  A search of archived newspaper articles would’ve told her that Billy Harper defied a restraining order and stalked his wife across state lines, where he was arrested on charges of domestic battery and breaking and entering in Washington D.C. Since very few were interested in Billy Harper after his football career prematurely ended, the arrest received very little publicity. The charges were soon dropped, and for all intents and purposes, the case never really existed.

  But Dana’s digging revealed that the maiden name of his ex-wife—Kelly Harper—was Klein, an heir to the Klein Beer fortune. She also found that Kelly Klein was now ironically married to Oliver LaRoche, the senator from Pennsylvania, and Dana guessed correctly that he was the model for the senator in Billy’s novel. She then deduced that LaRoche had used his influence to make the case disappear before it came to light that the incident was sparked by his having an affair with Kelly Harper. Especially since he was married at the time and his wife was dying of cancer back in Pennsylvania. Extra-marital affairs behind a sick wife’s back didn’t jibe with his family values agenda.

  Billy could tell that Dana suspected there was much more to the story. She was right, there was a lot more to the story. But it was a story Billy didn’t plan to discuss, now or ever. And since LaRoche had used his power and influence to seal the records, Billy could leave it in the rear-view mirror where it belonged, just like any stories of the Boulangers purchasing children on the black market.

  Carolyn was oblivious as to why they were leaving, but was excited by the mid-week adventure. She wore a personalized, miniature Albany River Rats hockey jersey, her father’s old team. The name Whitcomb was inscribed across the back with the number ½ planted in the center of her back. It was Chuck’s final stop on an eighteen year tour of minor league hockey that took him everywhere from Ontario to Oklahoma. But Albany was the most important stop—it’s where he had met Beth.

  Carolyn’s hair was in a ponytail and her arm still in a sling. Despite her negotiation tactics, she still had to wear the sling until her next check-up with the Drs. Carlson. She petitioned to ride with Billy and Dana, but Beth wasn’t going to let her out of her sight, perhaps for the rest of her life. Her car seat was strapped in the back seat of the pickup behind her parents, facing backwards. Every few seconds she would energetically wave at the Cherokee.

  Carolyn might have been unaffected by yesterday’s events, but Billy still couldn’t get the man on the motorcycle out of his mind. Just like when Carolyn attempted to fly off the porch, he couldn’t grasp that the man he mowed down with the Cherokee continued to chase them. The CIPA diagnosis seemed like a nice, neat resolution, but perhaps it was too nice and neat. Wild theories filled Billy’s mind. The craziest was that they were dealing with two aliens from a far-away galaxy and the man on the motorcycle was trying to bring Carolyn back to the mother-ship. Life was starting to become a living and breathing thriller. Billy found them much more fun to write than live. Every car they passed was a potential enemy and he even looked at the gas station attendant with suspicious eyes.

  Chuck’s wooden, one-level cabin was hidden from civilization on a couple of acres of forest. One side was guarded by Lake George, while mountain views of the Adirondacks hovered in the rear. Depending on if you are a glass is half-full or half-empty person, it could either serve as a great hiding area or become their Alamo.

  There was no running water or plumbing; the cabin’s only amenity was fresh country air. The interior was made up of knotty pine walls that smelled like burning wood. It had two cramped bedrooms that would make for some awkward sleeping arrangements, and the bathroom was a choice between a closet-sized outhouse behind the cabin and endless acres of thick forest.

  Dana, who made Jessica Simpson seem like a skilled outdoorsman, looked nauseous. She negotiated like a desperate child to go shop at some of the many outlets surrounding the Lake George community. But since that would have defeated the whole purpose of the trip, the idea was shot down.

  After they finished unpacking the vehicles, everyone migrated to a grassy meadow area outside the cabin. It was like an oasis in the middle of the thick forest. Level ground extended about thirty feet from the cabin, before declining sharply to a boat slip at the water’s edge.

  The two women sat on lounge chairs sipping drinks. Water for Beth, while Dana sipped from her personal survival kit—a bottle of Pinot. Beth was completely focused on Carolyn, who ran around aimlessly, pushing the limits of how close she could get to the water before Beth’s warnings echoed off the lake. It was a game to her.

  Billy joined Chuck in pacing. They were like two lions protecting their young. As he paced, Billy’s mind continued to race. Ideas that normally led to great plot twists in his writing were no longer fictional. He kept expecting the intruder to zoom out of the woods at any moment and whisk Carolyn away on his motorcycle.

  He could also tell that Chuck wasn’t in his element. Chuck was about offense, not defense. His version of normalcy was spotting his prey move into the corner of the rink, and skating toward him like a runaway truck. He would move closer…closer…closer. Then bam! He would crush him into the corner with a teeth-rattling blow, the Plexiglas shaking. Maybe they would drop gloves and fight, or maybe his opponent would cower at the sight of the six-foot-six behemoth. But regardless, he would be on the offensive. Not hiding at a cabin in upstate New York. Hours passed and Beth finally said, “Honey, why don’t you go hunting? You know how it relaxes you.”

  Chuck stopped his pacing. “I’m not leaving you and Carolyn.”

  Beth informed him that it was an order, not a request. He took his marching orders, which Billy found funny, at least until Chuck recruited him to come along. Billy wanted no part of killing Bambi’s mom, so he declined the offer. But a few minutes later he was wearing an orange vest and carrying a shotgun.

  Chuck confidently held his twelve-gauge, double barrel shotgun. He described it as an older, side-by side model called a LeFever Nitro Special. Billy awkwardly held his Remington pump shotgun. Chuck handed him some shells, which he fit into the pocket of the orange vest.

  Upon seeing Billy in his hunting getup, Dana broke into laughter. “Well don’t we feel protected now. Is that an Amish rifle?”

  “Very funny. Maybe if someone attacks you can offer him a glass of wine and take him shopping.”

  Now Beth laughed. “My money is on Dana.”

  Finally it was Carolyn’s turn to laugh. “Grownups are so silly!”

  Chapter 37

  Billy followed Chuck into the thick woods, which eventually emptied into a green meadow. Chuck explained that it wasn’t deer hunting season, so Bambi’s mother was off limits. They would concentrate on small game, which included an assortment of rabbit, quail, pheasant, and partridge.

  “So are you going to teach me what to do, or am I on my own?” Billy asked.

  Chuck laughed. He was relaxed—hunting was normalcy for him. “Maybe we can head down to the bookstore and get you one of those Hunting for Dummies books.”

>   “Hunting for dummies, isn’t that redundant?”

  Chuck glared at him.

  “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

  “I’d like to, eh, but do you know the cost of a babysitter these days?”

  Chuck then professorially taught Billy how to pull back the pump on his gun and load five shells. He explained that Billy’s shotgun was different from the one he was using, which didn’t use a pump. Then Chuck went through a set of checkpoints, before ending his instructions with, “And remember, a shotgun is a lot different than the high-powered rifle that I used on the intruder the other night. A shotgun shell sprays bee-bees so you don’t have to be marksman-accurate at close range.”

  Chuck spotted a rabbit about twenty yards in front of them and instructed Billy to raise the wooden butt stock, also known as the back of the gun, into his upper shoulder. Billy held the gun steady, feeling lighter than he thought it would.

  He looked at the poor rabbit before him. He didn’t feel good about what he was about to do, but reminded himself he was no vegetarian. Hamburgers didn’t appear at the supermarket courtesy of the meat fairy. He went through the checkpoints Chuck taught him. Lean forward—stabilize—anticipate movement—deep breath—put finger on trigger.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The gun erupted and he kicked back, surprised by how loud it was. He might not have needed to be a marksman, but he needed to be much better than he was. He wasn’t sure how much he missed by, but since the rabbit hopped away unscathed, it obviously hadn’t been hit. Billy swore he saw one of those Bugs Bunny mocking grins on its face.

  Chuck took aim, the shotgun wedged into his tall shoulder. He lightly pulled the trigger, a shot rang out, and Bugs was out of the moves. That’s all folks.

  Chuck instructed Billy to put the carcass into the pouch attached to his waist. He informed Chuck that under no circumstances was he walking around for the rest of the afternoon carrying a dead animal. Moments later, Billy followed Chuck into a pine tree lined field with his new “pet rabbit” attached to his waist. They walked side-by-side in a zigzagging pattern across the field, guns armed and ready, and Chuck continually scolding Billy to take his finger off the trigger.