When they arrived on the porch of the house she had chosen, Frank raised his fist to knock.
“What are you doing?” Dianne whispered harshly.
He looked at her. “Shall I ring the bell instead?”
“I thought we were going to break in.”
“We are, sort of. But I think it would be easier to not have to break the door down.”
“So... you want to see if they'll just let us in?”
“No. But if they at least open the door, we won't have to break the lock.”
“What if they don't open it? What if they call the cops?”
“I think they'll at least check first. When they open up to see who it is, I'll persuade them to allow us inside.”
“Wait.” She didn't like it. She opened the screen door and carefully tried the doorknob, making sure it was locked. It was. “Damnit.”
“Maybe you'd prefer to wait until they leave.”
“No.” She closed the screen door. “Go ahead.”
Frank was about to knock and then changed his mind and pressed the doorbell. From inside the house they heard muffled chimes announcing their presence.
“I hope it's not a gang of bikers,” Dianne muttered.
“I don't see any motorcycles,” Frank pointed out.
“You know what I mean. Maybe we should have scouted out the area for a little while to see who lives here.”
“We could always change our mind when they come to the door. We could claim to be Jehovah's Witnesses.”
“True.”
A light came on inside the house and they braced themselves for a confrontation. A few seconds later the porch light came on, and then they could hear the deadbolt retracting.
Dianne felt a powerful mix of trepidation and anticipation. It was the feeling of doing something entirely new. She'd been stuck in her mindless little routine for so many years that it felt completely foreign to her. She promised herself while standing on the porch that she'd never allow herself to get complacent or lazy again. She loved feeling this way, and she loved that this was probably just the beginning.
“It's my world,” she whispered.
Frank looked at her as the door began to open. “Hmm?”
“Nothing.”
Then a face was looking out at them, the face of a middle-aged woman. She was dressed in a nightgown and her hair stood up in a chaotic mess. She was overweight and very ugly, her round face heavily creased with wrinkles and folds. She looked at them each in turn, showing no outward concern over two strangers ringing her doorbell at 5:20 in the morning.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Frank cleared his throat. “I hope so. Our car broke down just up the street here. I'm terribly sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I was wondering if we might be able to use your phone to call for assistance.”
She studied him suspiciously. “Are you a priest?”
“Yes.”
“From around here?”
“Denver.”
She glanced at Dianne and then back at Frank. “There was a thing on TV. I'm not so sure about this.”
From inside the house came the voice of a teenaged boy. “Mom, who is it?”
“I'm not sure,” she called over her shoulder.
“Please,” Frank pleaded. “Just a quick phone call. Then we'll be out of your hair.”
She seemed to consider it, but not for very long. “If my husband was home, maybe. But he works nights now. If you can come back in a couple of hours...”
“It will only take a minute.”
“I'm sorry.” She pulled her nightgown closed up near her throat and began to step away from the door. “Maybe later.”
“We can't wait until later,” Frank insisted.
“Well, then you'll have to try another house. I'm not letting you in.”
She began to close the door, but Dianne was fast. She jerked open the screen door before the woman knew what was happening and forced her way in, shoving the heavy woman back and knocking her to the floor. The woman began hollering for her son immediately.
“Donnie! DONNIIIEEE!”
Frank entered the house right behind Dianne and pulled the door closed behind him. He brandished his gun, making sure it was fully visible.
“Let's keep it down in here,” he suggested. “All we wanted was to use the phone.”
They were in the living room, which was well furnished and overly warm. The rich scent of fresh coffee filled the air. Dianne was standing over the woman of the house and just as Frank came nearer, Donnie arrived from the hallway, struggling to put on a t-shirt.
“What the hell?” he asked. “What's going on?” He was about 14, and very thin. He saw Frank's gun and froze in his tracks.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Frank said. “We just need to borrow some duct tape. Can you show me where it is?”
“No!” The big woman yelled. “Don't give it to them, Donnie! He's going to rape me!” She began to scream and thrash around, trying to get up. Dianne bent over and slapped her across the face, causing her to sputter and wheeze and begin crying.
“Shut up,” Dianne ordered. “Just shut the hell up.”
She was unable to do it. “Please! Don't let him rape me! Please!”
“No one's going to do any raping,” Frank promised. He looked at Donnie. “Just get the duct tape, son.”
Donnie stared back defiantly. “What if I don't?”
Frank pointed the gun at his face. “God will not be happy with you.”
His eyes grew wide as he stared into the barrel. “What the fuck? Who the hell are you people?”
Frank stepped toward him. “Get the tape, you little pissant.”
Donnie, looking terrified, dashed in through the kitchen doorway.
“Call the police, Donnie!” the fat woman yelled after him.
Dianne slapped her again. “Shut up!”
“Keep an eye on her,” Frank instructed. He stepped through the kitchen doorway to check on Donnie, who, surprisingly, was hunched over and digging through a cabinet beneath the oven. “What are you doing?”
He stood up quickly, a large roll of gray duct tape in one hand. “You told me to!”
Frank nodded, pleased. “That's right. Good work, Donnie.”
“Don't call me that. My name is Don.”
“Bring the tape to Dianne, Don. We need to get a few things straightened out around here.”
“Are you going to kill us?”
“No. If I was going to kill you, you'd already be dead.”
Donnie thought about this. “Okay. But what are you going to do?”
“No more questions, Don. Just do as you're told and you and your mother will be fine.”
Don didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do. He stared at Frank, attempting to look menacing. It didn't work. Finally he stepped past him and brought the tape into the living room where Dianne was waiting.
* * *
“What about the bedroom?” Dianne asked.
Frank shook his head. “We'll probably want to use it.” He patted his pockets, searching for the cocaine.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing. I need to go back to the car.”
“But...”
“I know. I don't mean right this second.”
“What about the kid's room? We won't need that.”
“The kid's room will be fine. Let's move them one at a time.”
Donnie and his mother were bound at the wrists and ankles with tape, more of it wrapped around their mouths to keep them quiet. Frank and Dianne took hold of Donnie first and dragged him down the short hallway toward his bedroom. He struggled somewhat, but it was nothing more than a mild protest.
When they got him into his room, Frank leaned his back against the bed and used more tape to secure him to the frame. “Just relax for awhile, Don. I'm giving you permission to take the day off school.”
They returned to the living room and took hold of the woman, who was seething with hatred. She tried much harder than Donnie to fight them off. They dragged her roughly down the hallway and placed her beside her son, securing her there in much the same way.
“I don't like this bitch one bit,” Dianne complained.
“I don't think she likes us, either.”
Dianne stared hard into the woman's eyes. “I'm glad I picked this house. Fucking cunt. You could have at least let us use the phone.”
The woman tried to respond, but it was impossible to make out what she said.
Dianne bent over her. “Shut up. I hope you piss yourself.”
“I'm sure she will at some point,” Frank said.
“I hope so.” She looked at him. “Let's get out of here. I need a drink.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
They left the room, closing the door behind them.
* * *
“You know, it's funny,” Dianne said. She was sitting on the big white couch in the living room, her feet propped up on the coffee table. She was drinking from her bottle of Brazilian rum, which Frank had retrieved from the car along with their bags.
“What's that?” Frank responded. He was lounging beside her and sipping from a bottle of Wild Turkey. The sun was coming up and flooding the room with light. It was a pleasant home, and a peaceful moment, marred only by the realization that the owner would be home from work shortly and require their full attention.
“These people...” She motioned toward the bedroom. “The Poindexters, or whatever the hell their name is. They worked really hard for this house, I'm sure. And everything in it. And then we just come along and decide to take it over. On a whim. And there's really nothing they can do about it.”
“There is, but they didn't seem to try particularly hard.”
“No. Because it was so shocking to them. The reality of it didn't sink in fast enough to do them any good.”
“We've still got to contend with Mr. Poindexter. Let's not underestimate him.”
“Okay. That's true. But I'm not worried. One look at your gun and he'll probably turn to jelly.”
“Most people would.”
“True. And that's fine. I mean, somebody has to be the victim. I'm tired of it always being me.” She took another big swallow of rum.
“Are you feeling guilty?”
She looked at him. She was slightly dismayed to realize the question irritated her. “I don't know. I'm not sure.”
“If it's any consolation, I think your days of being a victim are over.”
“I hope you're right.”
Frank took a sip of bourbon, smiling at her. “I'm feeling quite proud of you, Dianne. You've come a long way in a very short time.”
The words meant a lot to her. “Thank you, Frank.” She studied him for a moment. “Do you have one of those joints handy? I feel like getting really fucked up.”
Frank produced one as if by magic. “Of course.”
23. Appropriation
It was almost 9am when a blue Chevy Malibu pulled up in front of the house and a tall, heavy, bearded man climbed out carrying a plastic lunch cooler. Frank and Dianne watched him as he turned up the walkway and made his way toward the house.
“God, look at him,” Dianne remarked. “He looks so dumb!”
“Let's hope that he is. It will make things much easier.”
“He's actually smiling. He looks retarded.” She took another pull from her bottle. She was drunk, and stoned, and felt very good. She felt mischievous. She was looking forward to the coming confrontation a bit more than she probably should be.
“Why don't you hide behind the door?” Frank suggested. “When he comes in, we'll flabbergast him.”
Dianne laughed. She thought it was a fine idea. She set her bottle down on the coffee table and got to her feet. She staggered slightly, reaching out to grab the arm of the couch for balance. “You do the talking. If he gets out of hand, I'll... I don't know... I'll do something.”
“We'll be fine.” Frank set his own bottle on the table beside Dianne's and stood up. As she took her place behind the door, he straightened his collar and stood formally in the center of the room with his hands clasped in front of him.
The door was unlocked. The man pushed it open and stepped halfway in before realizing that there was a stranger standing in his living room. He froze for a second, his mind racing with questions. “What... who are you?”
“Please, come in,” Frank said.
The man didn't move. He was staring at Frank's outfit with obvious alarm. “Are you a priest?”
“Yes.”
He looked around the room nervously. “What happened? Is Kim okay?”
“She's fine. She's in the bedroom.”
“The bed...” Now the man appeared skeptical. He stepped further into the room, but not much. He was still puzzling things over. He stood very near the door, Dianne directly behind him. “What's going on? Why are you here?”
“It's simple, really,” Frank explained. “We needed a place to stay for a few days. We chose this house at random.”
“We?”
“My associate and I.”
“Hi,” Dianne said from behind him. The man yelped like a child and dropped his lunch cooler to the floor. He spun around and regarded her fearfully.
“Christ Almighty! Who are you people? Where's Kim?”
“I told you,” Frank said. “She's in the bedroom.”
The man made a move to step past him, but Frank blocked his path by moving between the coffee table and the TV. “Just a minute. She's not taking visitors right now.”
“Don't tell me what she's taking!” the man snarled. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began pressing buttons.
Frank knocked it out of his hand. It sailed across the room and lost itself in the curtains, then slid down behind the couch. “You'd be wise to do what you're told.”
“This is my house! Don't tell me what to do!” He looked ready to take a punch at Frank. Frank remedied the situation by pulling the gun from his pocket. The man's dissent withered visibly at the sight of it. “Son of a bitch,” he whined. “What the hell do you want?”
“I already told you. We just need a place to stay for a few days.”
“So you're just... taking over my house?”
“Something like that. It will give you something exciting to talk about when you go back to work next week.”
“I've got to go back to work tonight.”
“Actually, you don't.”
“I have to! No one else can run that line!”
“Sit on the floor,” Frank ordered.
“Fuck you!”
Frank leveled the gun at his chest. “Sit!”
“No! Get out of my house!” He was trembling and trying not to show it.
Dianne had found a metal sculpture of some sort of dragon on the fireplace. She lifted it up and tested its weight in her hand. It was very solid. She stepped up behind the man of the house and hefted it.
“Last chance,” Frank warned. “Sit on the floor.”
The man stared at the gun, clearly panic-stricken. But he was too outraged to comply. “That's probably not even a real gun. If you were going to shoot me, you would have --”
Dianne struck him on the back of the head with the statue. There was a dull, meaty thud and another surprised yelp escaped the man's mouth. He fell to his knees, one hand rising to the back of his head.
“I suggest you do what he tells you,” Dianne said. “The Father has a very short temper.”
The man gazed up at her, blinking back tears. “What the... Jesus Christ! This is insane!”
“Indeed it is,” Frank agreed. “But nevertheless, you'd be wise to heed her advice.”
“Her advice was to listen to you!”
“Precisely.”
Dianne set the statue down on a shelf near the TV and picked up the roll of duct tape from the coffee table. “Hands behind your back,” she ordered.
“Fucking cunt!”
“Do it,” Frank instructed. He pointed the gun at the man's head.
“You don't have the guts.”
“He had the guts last night,” Dianne said. “And the night before that. Don't you watch the news? I wouldn't fuck with him if I were you.”
As the man processed this new information, he weighed his options, which were extremely limited. Something inside him became resigned and he hung his head. Slowly, he reached both hands behind his back. “Fucking douche bags. I'll get you for this.”
“Sure you will,” Dianne said. She got down on her knees and began wrapping the tape around his wrists. He smelled like body odor and Slim Jims, and she had to breathe through her mouth to keep from getting nauseous.
Frank found his Wild Turkey and took another drink. “Do you think we should put him with the others, or keep him separate?”
“Might as well keep them all together.” She finished with his wrists and then tore off another piece of tape for his mouth. He tried to duck out of the way as she applied it, but only halfheartedly. He knew he'd been conquered. When she had him gagged she moved on to his ankles, wrapping them up tightly and then setting the tape aside.
“Good work,” Frank said. He set his bottle down. “Let's drag him down the hall and be done with him.”
* * *
For the next couple of hours, they sat around on the couch together, drinking heavily and snacking on assorted food products they found throughout the kitchen. The place was very well stocked. Dianne was eating a dish of cold chicken legs which had been prepared with rosemary and taking hits from her quarter-empty bottle of rum. Frank was busy with a collection of peanut butter sandwich-halves which he'd made himself, and enjoying a cold can of Busch. There were cases and cases of Busch, enough to last a month if they should decide to stay that long. He doubted they would, but it was at least reassuring to be surrounded by all that beer.
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