by Jamie Mason
He texted Owen: The painting for Marcelline. Then we’re done. We’re where the truck is. Carly took Marcelline yesterday. She knows where it is.
The message came back: She knows where you’re talking about. She doesn’t know how to get there. She’s fourteen, dumbass.
Jonathan sent a screenshot of his location and a message: I can see the approach road. If anyone other than you comes down it, they’ll have to stop to move Marcelline’s dead body out of the road first.
Owen texted back: Have you been working up that line for the last hour? You missed your calling. You should have been a janitor.
Jonathan: How long till you get here?
Owen: About half an hour. So go ahead and put on something pretty.
It was oddly reassuring that Owen was being a dick.
• • •
Jonathan waited. Sometimes he caught Marcelline looking at him, sometimes she was so still he wondered if she’d somehow died.
He got the gas from the back. It was his leash on this meeting. The cheap hunting knife would be the collar. He’d picked up both at a gas station that sold everything. It even had a diner and Laundromat. You could practically live there. The styrofoam cups in the flotsam of Roy’s truck had the same logo as the sticker on Jonathan’s new gas can. The symmetry sent a nasty little tingle through his chest.
The sting of his blood pressure surged pins and needles into his hands as he worked. He held his breath as much as he could. He opened the truck’s doors and poured and splashed the gasoline. He was thankful for every oily, antiseptic waft of the fumes. It burned his throat, but it gave him a break from the constant exhalation of rot coming off Roy and his mess.
It was a strange, miserable thing to do, dousing Roy and all his stuff. It had to be like this because Jonathan had to go as far as he could. And that might have to be all the way.
Of anyone he’d ever met, Owen was the only one who might happily go to that line, take them there possibly only because it amused him. And Owen had a pastime of feeding humiliation to Jonathan. The dose makes the poison. This time, Jonathan wouldn’t swallow it.
He rehearsed it in his mind to the worst case, imagining sinking the knife into Marcelline’s neck. He had to know if it could happen. The shiny, pleated cummerbund was an accident of necessity that made it more likely. It held her still against the headrest, but better than that, he wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing. If it came to that, it would be almost like not doing it at all, just the blade disappearing into black fabric.
Owen had stopped to save her before. That was his line. He would stop to save her again.
Jonathan could do it. He would do it. Owen would believe it if Jonathan did.
He heard the Mercedes coming before he saw it. It had to be Owen. Even cops didn’t swagger that much in the tailpipes.
He walked away and lit a pack of matches and lobbed it into the truck as Owen pulled into view. He tossed a second one to land underneath the running board. The initial blast of the cooking gasoline licked at his skin and drove him away at a trot.
Owen got out of the car, setting his cuffs and buttoning his jacket as he came. Carly stepped out into his wake, openmouthed at the fire already busy in the truck.
Jonathan positioned himself at the open passenger window of his car and put the knife against the satin that covered Marcelline’s throat.
“Stop,” Jonathan said. “You have to be carrying a gun. I would be so disappointed to find out you weren’t. So take it out now and put it on the ground. Either that or Marcelline will have to insist you strip naked for everyone’s peace of mind.”
Jonathan brandished the knife, hoping his hand covered the embarrassing camouflage plastic that decorated the handle. The blade was bright and impressive, though, and he put it back against the fabric.
Carly gasped.
Owen reached behind him. “That would be quite an education for young Carly here.”
“Stop,” Jonathan said again. “Put your hands up where I can see them.”
Owen sagged in exasperation.
“If it’s at your waistband, let Carly get it.”
Owen unbuttoned again and raised his jacket clear of his body. “It’s okay,” he said to her. “The safety’s on. You’ll be fine.”
She struggled at the small of his back, then stepped out from behind him holding the gun as if it might blow up in her hand.
The worried, wary look she’d had in the kitchen this morning was gone, replaced with disbelief. Anger. Carly looked disgusted. There would be no when John disappeared legend. She would hate him or excuse him or possibly forgive him. But her new expression was a banishment. He’d never know how Carly would tell it.
“Carly, bring that here.” He held out his hand for the gun and stepped to the blade-tip limit so that she wouldn’t have to get too close. She wouldn’t want that. He certainly didn’t. He didn’t want to see her face change even more when she got a closer look at Marcelline.
“Carly, do not do that,” Owen said.
“Carly!” Jonathan called.
Owen smiled at her. “Take it across the road. Throw it down the hill. You know that’s what you want to do.”
Carly straightened up and scowled at Jonathan. She stomped off across the grass and overhanded the gun down the embankment.
The flicker of the fire in the truck was starting to grow wild sprouts and plumes of dark smoke.
“Carly,” Owen said as she came back into their standoff. “Can you please go get your present from the back of the car?”
Panic filled Jonathan’s throat. He forced his voice up through it. “Carly, no! Stay right where you are.” He risked a threat. “Carly, look at me. Look at what’s happening. Do not go get anything for him. Don’t risk your friend.”
“Relax,” Owen said. “It’s just the painting.”
“I said no.”
“Well then, go ahead and stab her and let me get on the road. This is getting fucking old.”
Jonathan felt Marcelline recoil the scant inch she could from the knife.
“Honestly,” Owen said. “It’s the painting. How else are you going to get it? How would that feel in your bladder to see me digging around in my car for something? Do you trust it? I wouldn’t. But you do you. As if you could even help it.”
Carly’s glare heated up. “Just stop. Both of you.” She stalked off toward the car without anyone’s permission.
“Unwrap it as you come, so he doesn’t mistake it for a machine gun,” Owen called back to Carly.
She did.
“I’m not booby-trapping her, Jonathan. None of this was my idea, remember? Never has been. I was going to blow you off. Carly made me come here. I already had what I came for. See?”
The comment made Jonathan look at Carly, who was studying the ground and cradling the painting. Marcelline couldn’t turn in the seat, but inclined her head. Fresh tears streamed down her face.
Carly’s shoulders were shaking with sobs.
Owen brought the group around from the moment of cascading emotions. “What’s with the bonfire? I’m not going to say it doesn’t make a hell of a backdrop. I could do without the smell, though.”
“It’s a timer, if you like. To keep this short. Someone is going to see that smoke. They’re going to call 911. It might have happened already. There’s a dead body in there.”
“You don’t say.”
“You guys can all be standing around like assholes when they get here. You can try to come up with something to say to the police or you can give me the painting and I’ll cut her loose. This can all be over in the next two minutes.”
“Two minutes? That’s a long time.” Owen walked off toward the truck. Jonathan didn’t know why he needed a closer look, much less a closer smell. He certainly wasn’t going to be able to put it out.
Some of the flames leaped off, cutting free from the body of fire before winking out above it. It was oddly beautiful.
Owen went around to the back o
f the truck. Jonathan could feel the heat from here. It must have been a broiler where Owen was standing.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jonathan called. “Let’s get this finished.” Then to Carly: “Just bring it to me. Bring it to me and I’ll let her go. I’m sorry.”
Carly watched Owen, who ignored them both. She plucked at the hem of her T-shirt with her free hand.
But she didn’t go to Jonathan.
At the open hatch, Owen laid his arm across his waist, holding back his jacket, almost a courtly prelude to a bow, which he then did, arm extended into the back of the truck.
He came out with a rectangle, cardboard maybe, crossed in duct tape and aflame at one end. He walked around with his torch, away from Jonathan, putting the car between them.
Jonathan was buoyant with adrenaline, as if he were lifting off, hovering slightly beyond what he was actually doing. He couldn’t make it mean anything. Was Owen going to start another fire in the grass? “What the fuck are you doing?”
Owen watched the flame at a casual arm’s length. Admiring it. Drawing all their attention to its glow.
“Stop! Not another goddamned step. What are you doing?”
Owen cocked his head as if Jonathan hadn’t spoken English. And he certainly didn’t stop. Across the roof of Jonathan’s own car, Owen smiled at him, big teeth flashing. He opened the driver’s side and pitched the burning box in with Marcelline and closed the door again.
It was Monopoly. Jonathan was transfixed by the sight of it on his seat. Cheery white and red where it wasn’t on fire. GO! on one end, big bold question mark on the other. Indeed. All of life summed up and burning. The leather of the seat melted instantly under it. The steering wheel smoked. The carpet oozed black smoke.
Carly’s piercing shriek rent the air and broke the spell.
“Shit!” Jonathan recoiled a stagger step back in horror as Marcelline went wild-eyed, flailing to the short limit of her ties, rough, gagging screams of terror rising muffled through the fabric in her mouth.
The open window beside her sucked at the flame, pulling it toward her.
Owen came around. He’d never broken stride. He slid into the shallow space that Jonathan had left in his small retreat. He stepped between the car and Jonathan with not a flicker of distress spared for the woman about to burn to death in front of them.
Carly was already halfway there. “No!”
She dropped the painting as she ran and it hit the ground, corner first, with a bright, splintering crack. The four-hundred-year-old Flinck disappeared in two distinct pieces into the tall grass.
Jonathan backed off another step, holding the knife out at Owen.
Owen gracefully sidestepped Carly rushing up, tearing at the door, screaming for Marcelline but calling her Emma.
Every nerve in Jonathan’s body hummed to an almost-subsonic ring, an internal tornado siren of music. He was vibrating so steadily, the back and forth almost canceled out to a standstill. His knife hand was trembling so hummingbird fast, it was almost steady.
Carly fought against the cummerbund around Marcelline’s neck, her wiry little muscles bunching in the strain, her whole body twisting to thrash the cloth loose, coughing out smoke and calling for help.
But Owen ignored her and matched Jonathan’s retreat, step for step, herding him away.
Carly pulled Marcelline free, collapsing to the ground with her, pulling at the viciously tight bindings. She unwound the purse strap from Marcelline’s ankles and freed the gag. She wrapped up the grown woman in her spindly little-girl arms, their heads together, crying. Marcelline was sobbing into Carly’s shoulder, trying to talk between the hitches, reaching for her bag. Carly helped her.
On her knees Carly turned to Owen. “Are you crazy?”
Jonathan walked backward, slowly away, knife out. He shivered as Owen still held his gaze, smiling at Jonathan in the clamor, calling over his shoulder to the rabidly angry Carly, “What? He only gave me two minutes.”
Carly jumped up as Marcelline shoved a black something into her hands.
Carly pointed the gun mostly downward, teeth bared at Owen, barrel toward his knees, deciding what to do with her power. She jerked one titch to the right and the gun was lined up on Jonathan.
It had been a horrible feeling looking at the black circle of that barrel in Marcelline’s hand the other night. With Carly behind it, it was almost otherworldly. She couldn’t shoot anyone. She was just a kid. She couldn’t knock anyone out either. Or track him down. Or steal a priceless painting. Twice. Except that she had.
Jonathan took another step back. Everything in him wanted to run, but it would be pointless. Owen would catch him. He raked his mind for one more plan. Just one more. Carly drew the low aim back and forth between the two men.
“Perfect!” Owen was grinning. “Can I have that, please?”
Carly’s nostrils flared and she brought the gun up as Owen came toward her. “She could have died!”
“She didn’t.” Owen put his hand around Carly’s, guided it down.
Carly’s groan rolled through the wounded low notes and rose to almost a scream. “What is wrong with you? All of you?”
“I don’t know. But nothing was ever going to happen to her. Not with you around. I knew that.”
Their hands moved apart, a magician’s trick, and the gun was small and completely steady in Owen’s massive fist. And pointed at Jonathan’s middle.
Jonathan dropped the knife. Hands out. “Okay. Let me just leave. What difference does it make now? You have everything. There’s nothing I can do to any of you.”
“True. But how are you going to do that?” Owen asked.
“Do what?”
“Leave. Are you suggesting I give you a lift to the bus station? Your car is on fire.”
“You can’t shoot me in front of Carly. Or at all. She’ll know. That’s not right.”
“I can’t? You burned a dead body in front of her. And, Jesus, look at Marcelline. You beat the shit out of her friend. Held a knife to her throat. You actually told Carly to bring you that painting so you wouldn’t kill her friend. But I can’t shoot you? Hmmmm.”
Jonathan hoped Carly held sway over Owen. She worked quickly on men like them. She’d taken him from wishing his girlfriend were childless to being a content stepfather. An amused one. One who sought her approval. He and Owen weren’t so different.
“Carly, listen. Carly, please. Remember what I said about us making ourselves? You have to understand I was going to—”
Owen lowered the gun and covered the distance between them in a few shockingly fast strides. Jonathan’s body jerked in opposing impulses, to relax out of the gun’s sights and to retreat from Owen’s sudden lurch toward him.
Jonathan didn’t work out the conflict in time to get clear of Owen’s open hand. It crashed against his cheek in a slap that stole his vision briefly. Owen backed up immediately and reextended the pistol.
“Don’t you talk to her, you sack of shit.”
Owen stepped back and poked at the grass with his foot. He stooped and picked up the larger piece of the painting, then reached again for the splintered triangle of its left side. It had broken off just past the waterwheel at the foot of the bridge.
That corner. The first thing Jonathan had seen poking up from the box in his father’s garage. The wedge that had shown in the video as he pulled it up on his computer with the cops behind him. The tattling glimpse that no one should have seen.
Jonathan breathed in a lungful of complicated air. Smoke. The green of trampled grass. Fresh decay. Wisps of clean breeze. Metal and meat.
He watched the maw of the gun never waver off target. Fresh sweat bloomed into his armpits and groin.
“Carly.” Owen called to her and she walked over, stricken, mouth like a tragedy mask. Owen gave her the pieces. “I want you to take this to the car. Put it inside and then keep walking down the road. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”
She looked past Owen into Jon
athan’s eyes.
Alarm blazed through him and thrummed into his fingertips. His calves ached. His blood sizzled under her gaze. He tried to be John, the one she’d laughed with, the one she’d accepted in good faith. He brought the components of her stepfather into his frozen face as fast as he could recall them through the rising yammer of every instinct in his body. “Please.”
But Owen called her attention back before Jonathan could work it all to the surface. She looked away. There’d been no spark of recognition. Carly didn’t know him. How did it ever come down to Carly?
Her chin was trembling when she looked back at Owen. He held the gun on Jonathan casually, almost invisibly, like an extension of his arm. He might as well have been pointing his finger at him.
“Take it to the car and keep going. I’ll be right there.” Amazingly, Owen winked. “Go on, Your Highness. One day you’ll rule more than you already do. But you need to listen to me just now.”
“But Marcelline. What will—”
“Go ahead. It’ll be okay.”
She did. Jonathan watched her thin back retreat, the big piece of the broken Flinck under her arm, the rest of it, the wooden stake of a Dutch master, in her hand.
Terror, like pain, has a threshold. Beyond it is just white noise. The line slipped under Jonathan’s toes and tipped him away from all that he could handle.
Owen took up Jonathan’s sight line. His height and breadth eclipsed the light. The air fell just slightly cooler in his shadow.
“Your problem is that you think this means something. That it has to, even for me. That this is dramatic.” Owen took one giant mother-may-I-step closer. “It’s not.”
Jonathan wanted it to be that Owen punched him in the chest. The pain felt like the blow of a hard, heavy fist. But a crash of gunfire split the air simultaneously with the hit. And Owen was still where he’d been. Not punching. Just aiming.
It wasn’t possible for it to be what Jonathan wanted, and the center of him was now hot and wet. The middle of him had a new gravity all its own. The world whooshed into him, Jonathan staggered sideways and his knees went loose. He went down to his hip and one arm. He heard a pop in his elbow but didn’t feel it. His chest felt solid, flattened, as if he couldn’t break open the bellows of his lungs. He rolled onto his back.