by Jay Nichols
Chapter 25
"Huh, Rusty? Are you gonna tell me how I got you to come here?"
Russell sat perched on the edge of the couch. His brain raced for an answer to Mike’s question. There was one. He just didn’t know where to find it yet.
It’s out there somewhere, floating around. I’ve just got to bide my time and wait for it to come into range. Once it does, I’ll nab it like I always do. It’d sure get here a lot quicker if that crazy moron would stop pointing that stupid arrow at me. Just who the hell does he think he is anyway?
"I’m waiting," O’Brien said impatiently.
“What?" Russell shot back, "You got a big date or something?"
"Ha-ha-ha," Mike said dryly, leaning against the television.
Russell looked between Mike’s skinny, scabbed legs, at a chip in the upper corner of the screen and wondered how it got there.
This isn’t the time to be noticing stuff like that. I need my eyes and ears open. The answer to the riddle is out there. I can feel it.
And it was a riddle. He was sure of that now. In fact, the whole situation was one enormous brain twister wrought specifically for Russell to solve. The designer of the trap wasn’t the scrawny kid pointing the notched and drawn arrow at him (though Russell was certain that Mike thought he was the creator of the labyrinthine puzzle), but rather a more sinister mind was at work, moving him and Mike both around like pawns on the same invisible chessboard.
But I can solve it. I can beat it. Because I can see things that no one else can see. Mike may have tricked me into coming here tonight, but I’ll be the one having the last laugh. I always do. He wants me to rack my brain; he wants me confused. Most of all, he wants a battle—whether it be of wits or fists—that will prove him superior. But if I don’t compete, I win. You only lose the games you play, and since I’ve never played those macho, head-butting, look-at-me-I’m-better-than-you games before in my life, I refuse to play them now. I refuse to give that freak even the remotest chance for victory. I refuse to give him what he wants most.
"Hey, Mike?"
"What?"
"I think I know how you got me to come here."
O’Brien sauntered over to the middle of the room, lifted his right foot, and placed it on top of a stack of magazines on the coffee table. Resting the bow flat across his thigh, he looked Russell straight in the eyes and said, "Okay, Mr. Genius. How’d I do it?"
Russell answered with the most harebrained theory he could conjure in such a short amount of time. "This is what you did," he began.
Then he paused.
"And…" Mike urged.
Russell dovetailed the edges of his story. "It’s so obvious now. It was Hector who wrote that letter saying I’d killed Lola. He copied your handwriting to make me think you had written it. He used your backhand script and everything, because Hector’s so smart—"
"Shut up!" O’Brien yelled.
Russell looked at him with insincere confusion. "What? Do you want me to tell you how you got me to come here or not? Isn’t that what you asked me to do?"
"You’re making fun," Mike said, retreating backwards.
"How am I doing that? You asked me to tell you how you tricked me, and I was trying—"
"You were being sarcastic. You weren’t being serious."
Russell smiled inwardly. It was too easy.
"You need to calm down, Mike. There’s no reason to get upset over this. You asked a question; all I did was try to answer it. It’s not my fault I figured out how you got me to come over here on such a fine August night. I guess I’m smarter than I thought."
Mike fretfully paced the living room. When he spoke, he looked everywhere except at Russell. "That’s not how I did it at all! You’re stupid, Rusty. I tricked you, and you don’t know how I did it! I’m the smart one. Not you. You’re dumb, and you’re a meanie, and you’re going to die when Hector gets back!"
"I know. We’ve already discussed this. Am I the only one who gets the feeling we’re going around in circles here?"
O’Brien alternately pulled and loosened the tension on the bow line while walking loops around the room. In the corner, under the end table by Russell’s feet, Huey pumped shallow, erratic breaths.
Russell waited for Mike to speak, but the freak went on pacing in silence. Thinking he’d never stop, Russell leaned forward and reached for a magazine.
Thwooinn-oinnn-oinnn-oinnn-oingggg!!
The arrow pierced the magazines at an oblique angle, pinning them to the table. The arrow’s tail continued to vibrate and hum long after splintering the cheap particle board. Russell didn’t flinch, even though the arrow had missed his outstretched right hand by inches. Instead, he threaded the uppermost magazine through the still-quivering shaft and placed it on his lap, then licked the tips of his fingers and began turning the pages.
"Oooh, look Mike!" he said. "It’s a quiz to see what kind of lover you are. Do you want me to read you the questions?"
Mike spat across the room. A few of the droplets struck Russell’s cheek, but Russell refrained from wiping them away or giving any indication that he had been hit.
He wants me mad. If I don’t get mad, I win.
"Question one: When in bed with your significant other, what—"
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!"
O’Brien rushed over to the couch, ripped the magazine from Russell’s hands, and threw it across the room.
"That was rude," Russell said, leaning into the cushions and folding his hands neatly in his lap. "Some people…"
Mike stomped huffily about the small room, begging for attention the way a four-year-old would. Wherever he went, Russell looked the opposite direction.
"Don’t you see what I’ve become?"
"Yeah," Russell replied, "I see. We’ve been through this before. You’re a man, you’re smart, I’m stupid, blah-blah-blah…. But what I don’t understand is why you didn’t want to take the quiz. Are you not in the mood?"
Russell smiled, this time outwardly. He couldn’t help himself. Mike was just like everybody else—just another small soul in search of a greatness that would always elude him. Under different circumstances, he’d have taken pity on the kid. But the circumstances weren’t different, so he didn’t.
Seeing Russell smile, Mike asked, "You don’t take anything serious, do you?"
"I guess I don’t," Russell answered. "Then again, it’s kind of hard to take things seriously when I keep getting placed in such ridiculous situations."
"This is a serious situation," Mike corrected. "Why can’t you see that?"
"I see enough. And do you know what I see? I see a fool threatening my life with my dead friend’s bow. And that’s all I see."
"I’m a man," Mike said lamely.
"No, you’re not. You’re an idiot, Mike. A drone. A peon. You’re just like Lee Harvey Oswald or Mark David Chapman. You’re jealous of the talents given to others. Well, guess what? It’s not my fault you’re a nobody, just like it’s not your fault I’m a somebody. You’ll never be better than me, Mike, and do you know why? Because people never change. All of your testosterone-fueled posturing tonight is obviously meant to scare and intimidate me, and to be completely honest with you, it does scare me. I don’t know whether you’re going to shoot me with that arrow or not. I see that you’ve got about five of them in that quiver across your back, so I guess if you really wanted to, you could. You’ve already shown me you’re fast and a good shot with that thing, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ll never be better than me. And do you know why you’ll never be better than me, Mike?"
"Why?"
"Because the harder you try, the more you’ll fail. You can’t change your station in life. Once an asshole, always an asshole. Pete used to say that. It’s obvious you hold a grudge against me. You think I’m your enemy for some reason."
"You are."
"Nevertheless, if you kill me, then guess what’ll happen to you? You’ll go to prison. Do you know what they do to skinny white boys in pr
ison, Mike?"
"Shut up!!!"
"I think you do know. You’re stupid, but you’re not stupid enough to throw your whole life away over some feud that doesn’t even exist. You hate me, but I don’t hate you. Tell you what: if you put down that bow and run back home right now, I’ll promise not to tell anybody what happened here. I’ll even take the blame for killing Lola. Just turn around and go back home. Go back to where you belong, Mike."
Mike stood in the center of the room, frozen, waiting for his mind to make a decision.
"Just go," Russell coaxed, pointing to the back door. "Go home, get some rest, and try to forget about all this…craziness."
O’Brien snapped out of his stupor. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But it ain’t happening. I’m staying here till Hector gets back. Then I’m gonna kill you, because that’s what I’m supposed to do."
"Why?"
"Because people like you deserve to die. You’re not even a man." Mike spat out the last word as if he were speaking of an abhorrent creature disguised as a person, instead of a real, live, flesh and bone human being.
"What makes me not a man, Mike? Is it because I don’t hunt and kill things? Is it because I don’t act the way you think a man should act? Am I too ethereal—too magical—for you to wrap your mind around? Do I express my feelings too freely and keep my temper too readily? Am I supposed to brag about all the girls I’ve fucked like all of the other morons at school? Tell me, Mike, because I’d really like to know."
"You’re a pussy," was all O’Brien offered.
"And what makes me a pussy?"
"You know."
"No. I don’t. Why don’t you enlighten me, since you’re the man around here, the man with the million dollar plan. Tell me, Mike: What makes me a pussy?"
Mike thought for a moment, then said, "You’re too clean. You’re always clean. You’re afraid of getting dirty."
"Actually, I had a job this summer fixing water heaters and air conditioners in dusty attics and greasy garages in one hundred degree plus heat. Trust me, I’m not scared of a little dirt."
Mike dodged. "I don’t see the point in explaining this. You won’t get it anyway."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you’ll just deny whatever I say. You don’t take anything serious."
Russell put on a mask of astonishment. "Let me get this straight: I’m the one who doesn’t take anything seriously? Correct me if I’m wrong here, Mike, but weren’t you the one pinching Hector’s leg and walking around on his hands like a crab three weeks ago? Was that you or somebody else? And aren’t you the same person who sings to his dog and never has enough money to pay for his lunch when he goes out to eat? You’re the guy who jumped on my dog’s back and tried to ride him like a horse, right? The same Michael O’Brien who loves his dog so much yet is slowly letting him die? You’re killing Huey, Mike. Don’t you hear how much trouble he’s having just trying to breathe? You did that. I thought you loved him. How can you be so negligent?"
Mike looked away. Russell noticed tears beading up in the corners of Mike’s dirt-encrusted eyes. Even now, Russell found himself wanting to feel sorry for him. Ultimately, he couldn’t. He had fought so hard for the waste of humanity standing before him. He had taken him in when he’d had nowhere else to go; he had fed him, protected him, stuck up for him when everybody was calling him crazy. Pete used to tell people that Mike turned his insanity on and off and, thus, wasn’t crazy at all. Now, though, Russell knew that his friend had been wrong. Mike really was crazy, and he was a monster.
Mike slowly turned his head to face Russell. His eyes were wild. Drool slid from his agape mouth.
Shut yer yapper, Russell wanted to shout. You’re getting slobber all over yourself.
"Huey’s just sick," Mike said, peering at the stump tail underneath the end table. "He’s had a rough day."
"Tell me about it," Russell muttered.
Then, far away—Russell guessed two, maybe three miles—a clap of thunder.
"Did you hear that?" Russell asked, momentarily forgetting he had a drawn arrow pointed at his chest. "Sounded like thunder."
"No. That was a ‘splosion," Mike said, darting his eyes to the front window and slurping saliva back into his mouth.
"What do you think exploded? A gas station?"
"Probably. Who cares?"
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because people could have been hurt. Innocent people who had no reason to die."
"Shut up," Mike said. "I know what you’re trying to do."
"I’m not trying to do anything."
"You’re trying to get me to acknowledge my feelings and all that other pussy crap that goes with it."
"Like compassion and love?"
"No—like weakness and doubt. You want me to let you go. You’re too chicken to make a grab for my bow, so now you’re trying to talk your way out of it. See, that’s what I mean about you being a pussy. You’re not man enough to fight me."
"You’ve got a deadly weapon in your hands; of course I’m not going to fight you. Why don’t you put the bow down so we can duke it out like a couple of Cro Magnons."
"Cro what?
"Cro Magnons. Cave men. That’s what you’re aspiring to be. Physical threats, simple weaponry, bare feet, no shirt, dirt all over. You’re a cave man, Mike. I guess I’ll play along—why not? Let’s fight."
Russell stood and stepped around the coffee table.
"What are you doing?" Mike said, scanning the approaching figure up and down for hidden threats.
Russell raised his fists. "I’m fighting you. That’s what you want, right? Put Pete’s bow down and fight me like a man."
"It’s not fair. You’re bigger than me."
Russell’s face lit up. "Ohhh!! And it’s fair for you to point that goddamn bow in my face? Somehow that’s fair?
"I hate you."
Russell lowered his fists. "‘I hate you, I hate you, Rusty.’ That’s what it all boils down to: I’m your enemy and you have to shoot me in front of Hector. You’re so full of shit, Mike. Without that bow, you’re nothing. I have music and art, and you have my dead friend’s archery set. I hope it’s making you feel real big, you having this artificial power over me, because it won’t last. Someone bigger and badder will come along and knock that yellow piece of metal, or fiberglass, or whatever it is, out of your grimy, lame hands. Mark my words, you kook."
"Temper, temper, temper," Mike said, grinning. "I’m not going to fight you, because I know you’d win. And if you win, I won’t get to kill you."
"Don’t you see," Russell pleaded, "how you are contradicting yourself? You say you’re better than me, and you say you’re a man, but you refuse to back it up. You won’t fight me, you won’t argue with me, you won’t do anything but threaten. When you build a case on a flimsy foundation, you can’t expect—"
Flimsy foundation? That was Mike’s house that blew up, wasn’t it? That wasn’t shit I smelled earlier. It was gas.
O’Brien shrugged. Russell wanted to kill him. "What can I say? I’m ironic."
Russell shook his head hopelessly while at the same time noticing the distant wails of sirens rushing through the night.
"What?" Mike asked.
"The word you wanted was enigmatic. But you’re not even that. You’re random. That’s what you are. Random."
"No. I’m enigmatic. Like you."
"Is that what this is all about?"
Russell walked toward Mike, who retreated to the piano room door.
"What are you doing?" Mike asked.
"Are you that jealous of me?"
"Stop it!" He pointed the arrow tip at Russell’s face. "I swear to God, I’ll shoot you. I’ve done it before."
Russell stopped, because about this, Mike wasn’t lying. He really would shoot the musician in the face. Russell saw the resolve in Mike’s ocean-blue eyes.
Cornered dogs bite. So don’t box him in yet.
Russell backed s
teadily away until his hamstrings struck the ledge of the end table. Underneath, his face buried in the dark corner, the animal engine that was Huey still combusted. Without looking down, Russell rubbed his ankle against the stubby tail and felt the dog stir.
Good. He’s alive.
"I’m not jealous of you," Mike said unconvincingly from across the room. "What’s there to be jealous of? You’re nothing."
Russell felt the juices flowing inside of him, urging him on, begging him to shine. He now knew exactly what he had to do. He had to win. For there was a victory somewhere in this room. All he had to do was grab it. It was beginning to flutter in closer now. He could sense it in his solar plexus, where his soul was reaching out for the win of all wins—the only win that mattered.