A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  “So how come you live out here all by yourself?” Gil asked, hoping to get the conversation on a saner topic than snakes and snapping turtles in the crawl space.

  “I like being by myself.”

  “You must. But whatever rent you pay on this place, it’s too much.”

  “Don’t pay no rent at all. I own it.”

  “Yeah, but the land—”

  “My land.”

  Gil almost dropped his coffee mug. “ Your land! That’s impossible!”

  “Nope. All twenty acres been in my family for a zillion and two years.”

  Gil’s brain whirled as he tried to calculate the value of twenty acres of real estate fronting on Monroe Harbor and Long Island Sound.

  “You’re a fucking millionaire!”

  George laughed. “I wish! I’m what you call ‘land poor,’ son. I’ve got to pay taxes on all this land if I want to keep it, and the damn bastards down at City Hall keep raising my rates and my assessed value so that I’ve got to come up with more and more money every year just to stay here. Trying to force me out, that’s what they’re up to.”

  “So sell, for Christ sake! There must be developers chomping at the bit to get ahold of this land. You could make ‘em pay through the nose for a piece of waterfront and all your money worries would be over!”

  George shook his head. “Naw. Once you sell one little piece, it’s like a leak in a dam. It softens you, weakens you. Soon you’re selling another piece, and then another. Pretty soon, I’ll be living on this little postage stamp surrounded by big ugly condos, listening to cars and mopeds racing up and down the road with engines roaring and rock and roll blasting. No thanks. I’ve lived here in peace, and I want to die here in peace.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Besides, lots of animals make their homes on my land. They’ve been pushed out of everywhere else in Monroe. All the trees have been cut down back there, all the hollows and gullies filled in and paved over. There’s no place else for them to go. This is their world, too, you know. I’m their last resort. It’s my duty to keep this place wild as long as I can. As long as I live . . . which probably won’t be too much longer.”

  Oh, yes . . . crazy as a loon. Gil wondered if there might be some way he could get the old guy to will him the property and then cork him off. He stuffed the idea away in the To Be Developed file.

  “Makes me glad I don’t have a phone,” George was saying.

  Right . . . no phone and no visitors.

  Gil knew this was the perfect hiding place for him. Just a few days was all he needed. But he had to stay here with the old guy’s cooperation. He couldn’t risk anything forceful—not if George met the mailman at the box every day.

  And from a few things the old man had said, he thought he knew just what buttons to push to convince George to let him stay.

  George noted that his guest’s coffee was empty. Good. Time to get him moving on. He never had company, didn’t like it, and wasn’t used to it. Made him itchy. Besides, he wanted this guy on his way before another remark about the tenants slipped out. That had been a close call before.

  He stood up.

  “Well, guess it’s about time to be running you down to the marina for that tank of gas.”

  The stranger didn’t move.

  “George,” he said in a low voice, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

  “Don’t want to hear it!” George said. “I ain’t no priest! Tell it somewhere else. I just want to help get you where you’re going!”

  “I’m on the run, George.”

  Oh, hell, George thought. At least that explained why he was acting so skittish. “You mean there’s no boat waiting for gas somewhere?”

  “I . . .” His voice faltered. “I lied about the boat.”

  “Well ain’t that just swell. And who, may I ask,”—George wasn’t so sure he wanted the answer to this, but he had to ask—“are you on the run from?”

  “The Feds.”

  Double hell. “What for?”

  “Income tax evasion.”

  “No kidding?” George was suddenly interested. “How much you take them for?”

  “It’s not so much ‘how much’ as ‘how long.’ ”

  “All right: How long?”

  “Nine years. I haven’t filed a return since I turned eighteen.”

  “No shit! Is that because you’re stupid or because you’ve got balls?”

  “Mr. Haskins,” the stranger said, looking at him levelly and speaking with what struck George as bone-deep conviction, “I don’t believe any government’s got the right to tax what a working man earns with the sweat of his brow.”

  “Couldn’t of said it better myself!” George cried. He thought his heart was going to burst. This boy was talking like he’d have wanted his son to talk, if he’d ever had one. “The sonsabitches’ll bleed you dry if you let ‘em! Look what they’ve been doin’ to me!”

  The young stranger stared at the floor. “I was hoping you’d understand.”

  “Understand? Of course I understand! I’ve been fighting the IRS for years but never had the guts to actually resist I My hat’s off to you!”

  “Can I stay the night?”

  That brought George up short. He wanted to help this courageous young man, but what was he going to do about the tenants?

  “What’s going to happen to you if they catch you? What kind of sentence you facing?”

  “Twenty.”

  George’s stomach turned. A young guy like this in the hole for twenty years just for not paying taxes. He felt his blood begin to boil.

  “Bastards!”

  He’d have to chance it. Tenants or not, he felt obligated to give this guy a place to stay for the night. It would be okay. The tenants could take the day off and just rest up. They’d been working hard lately. He’d just have to watch his mouth so he didn’t make another slip about them.

  “Well, George? What do you say?”

  “I can let you stay one night and one night only,” George said. “After that—”

  The young fellow leaped forward and shook his head. “Thanks a million, George!”

  “Hear me out now. Only tonight. Come tomorrow morning, I’ll drive you down to the train station, get you a ticket, and put you on board for New York with all the commuters. Once in the city, you can get lost real easy.

  George thought he saw tears in the young man’s eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Never mind that. You just hit the sack in my room. You look bushed. Get some rest. No one’ll know you’re here.”

  He nodded, then went to the window and gazed out at the land. “Beautiful here,” he said.

  George realized it would probably look even more beautiful if the window were cleaner, but his eyes weren’t good enough to notice much difference.

  “If this were mine,” the young fellow said passionately, “I’d sure as hell find a way to keep it out of the hands of the developers and the tax men. Maybe make it into a wildlife preserve or bird sanctuary or something. Anything to keep it wild and free.”

  Shaking his head, he turned and headed for the back room. George watched him in wonder. A wildlife preserve! Why hadn’t he thought of that? It would be untaxable and unsubdividable! What a perfect solution!

  But it was too late to start the wheels turning on something like that now. It would take years to submit all the proposals and wade through all the red tape to get it approved. And he didn’t have years. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that his body was breaking down. He couldn’t see right, he couldn’t breathe right, and Christ Almighty, he couldn’t even pee right. The parts were wearing out and there were no replacements available.

  And what would happen when he finally cashed in his chips? What would happen to his land? And the tenants? Where would they go?

  Maybe this young fellow was the answer. Maybe George could find a way to leave the land to him. He’d respect it, preserve it, just as George would if he could go o
n living. Maybe that was the solution.

  But that meant he’d have to tell him the real truth about the tenants. He didn’t know if the guy was ready for that.

  He sat down in the sun on the front steps and lit another cigarette. He had a lot of thinking to do.

  The five o’clock news was on.

  George had kept himself busy all day, what with tending to the carrot patch outside and cleaning up a bit inside. Having company made him realize how long it had been since he’d given the place a good sweeping.

  But before he’d done any of that, he’d waited until the young fellow had fallen asleep, then he’d lifted the trapdoor under the rug in the corner of the main room and told the tenants to lay low for the day. They’d understood and said they’d be quiet.

  Now he was sitting in front of the TV watching Eyewitness News and going through today’s mail: Three small checks from the greeting card companies—not much, but it would help pay this quarter’s taxes. He looked up at the screen when he heard “the Long Island town of Monroe” mentioned. Some pretty Oriental girl was sitting across from a scholarly looking fellow in a blue suit. She was saying, “. . . explain to our viewers just what it is that makes Gilroy Connors so dangerous, Dr. Kline.”

  “He’s a sociopath.”

  “And just what is that?”

  “Simply put, it is a personality disorder in which the individual has no sense of ‘mine’ and ‘not mine,’ no sense of right or wrong in the traditional sense.”

  “No conscience, so to speak.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are they all murderers like Connors?”

  “No. History’s most notorious criminals and serial killers are sociopaths, but violence isn’t a necessary facet of their makeup. The confidence men who rip off the pensions of widows or steal from a handicapped person are just as sociopathic as the Charles Mansons of the world. The key element in the sociopathic character is his or her complete lack of guilt. They will do whatever is necessary to get what they want and will feel no remorse over anyone they have to harm along the way.”

  “Gilroy Connors was convicted in the Dorothy Akers murder. Do you think he’ll kill again?”

  “He has to be considered dangerous. He’s a sociopathic personality with a particularly low frustration threshold. But he is also a very glib liar. Since the truth means nothing to him, he can take any side of a question, any moral stance, and speak on it with utter conviction.”

  A voice—George recognized it as belonging to one of the anchormen—called from off-camera: “Sounds like he’d make a great politician!”

  Everyone had a good laugh, and then the Oriental woman said, “But all kidding aside, what should our viewers do if one of them should spot him?”

  Dr. Kline’s expression was suddenly grim. “Lock the doors and call the police immediately.”

  The camera closed in on the Oriental girl. “There you have it. We’ve been speaking to Dr. Edward Kline, a Long Island psychiatrist who examined Gilroy Connors and testified for the state at the Dorothy Akers murder trial.

  ” In case you’ve been asleep or out of the country during the last twenty-four hours, all of Long Island is being combed for Gilroy Connors, convicted killer of nineteen-year-old college coed Dorothy Akers. Connors escaped custody last night when, due to an error in paperwork, he was accidentally transferred to the Monroe Neuropsychiatric Institute instead of a maximum security facility as ordered by the court. The victim’s father, publisher Jeffrey Akers, is offering a fifty thousand dollar reward for information leading to his recapture.”

  Fifty thousand! George thought. What I could do with that!

  “You’ve heard Dr. Kline,” she continued. “If you see this man, call the police immediately”

  A blow-up of a mug shot appeared on the screen. George gasped. He knew that man! Even with his rotten vision, he could see that the face on the TV belonged to the man now sleeping in his bed! He turned around to look toward the bedroom and saw his house guest standing behind him, a knife in his hand.

  “Don’t even think about that reward, old man,” Connors said in a chillingly soft voice. “Don’t even dream about it.”

  “You’re hurtin’ my hands!” the old fart whined as Gil knotted the cord around his wrists.

  “I’m putting you down for the night, old man, and you’re staying down!”

  He pulled the rope tighter and the old man yelped.

  Gil said, “There—that ought to hold you.”

  George rolled over onto his back and stared up at him. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?” There was more concern than fear in his eyes.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how you behave.”

  Truthfully, he didn’t know what to do. It would be less of a hassle to kill him now and get it over with, but there was the problem of the mailman. If George wasn’t waiting curbside at the box tomorrow morning, the USPS might come knocking on the door. So Gil had to figure out a way to pressure George into acting as if everything was nice and normal tomorrow. Maybe he’d have George stand at the door and wave to the mailman. That might work. He’d have to spend some time figuring this out.

  “All that stuff you said about dodging the tax man was just lies, wasn’t it?”

  Gil smiled at the memory. “Yeah. Pretty good, wasn’t it? I mean, I made that up right off the top of my head. Sucked you in like smoke, didn’t I?”

  “Nothing to be proud of.”

  “Why not?”

  “You heard what they called you on the TV: a ‘socialpath.’ Means you’re crazy.”

  “You watch your mouth, old man!” Gil could feel the rage surging up in him like a giant wave. He hated that word. “I’m not crazy! And I don’t ever want to hear that word out of your mouth again!”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” George said. “Soon as you’re out of here, my tenants will untie me.”

  Gil laughed. “Now who’s crazy!”

  “It’s true. They’ll free me.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Gil said. It wasn’t funny anymore. He didn’t like being called crazy any more than he liked being near crazy people. And this old man was talking crazy now. “No more of that kind of talk out of you!”

  “You’ll see. I’m their protector. Soon as you’re—”

  “Stop that!” Gil yanked George off the bed by his shirt front. He was losing it—he could feel it going. “God damn that makes me mad!”

  He shoved the old man back against the wall with force enough to rattle the whole house. George’s eyes rolled up as he slumped back onto the

  bed. A small red trickle crawled along his scalp and mixed with the gray of his hair at the back of his head.

  “Sleep tight, Pops,” Gil said.

  He left George on the bed and returned to the other room. He turned the antique TV back on. After what seemed like an inordinately long warm-up time, the picture came in, flipped a few times, then held steady. He hoped there wasn’t another psychiatrist on talking about him.

  He hated psychiatrists. Hated them! Since he’d been picked up for killing that college chick, he’d seen enough of their kind to last a couple of lifetimes. Why’d she have to go and die? It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t meant to kill her. If only she’d been a little more cooperative. But no—she’d had to go and laugh in his face. He’d just got mad, that was all. He wasn’t crazy. He just had a bad temper.

  Psychiatrists! What’d they know about him? Labeling him, pigeonholing him, saying he had no conscience and never felt sorry for anything he did. What’d they know? Did they know how he’d cried after Mom had burnt up in that fire in Dad’s car? He’d cried for days. Mom wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near that car when it caught fire. Only Dad.

  He had loads of feelings, and nobody had better tell him any different!

  He watched the tube for a while, caught a couple of news broadcasts, but there was
only passing mention of his escape and the reward the girl’s old man had posted for him. Then came a report that he had been sighted on Staten Island and the search was being concentrated there.

  He smiled. They were getting farther and farther away from where he really was.

  He shut off the set at eleven-thirty. Time for some more sleep. Before he made himself comfortable on the couch, he checked out the old man’s room. He was there, snoring comfortably under the covers. Gil turned away and then spun back again.

  How’d he get under the covers?

  Two strides took him to the bedside. His foot kicked against something that skittered across the floor. He found what it was: the old guy’s shoes. They’d been on his feet when he’d tied him up! He yanked back the covers and stared in open-mouthed shock at the old man.

  George’s hands and feet were free. The cords were nowhere in sight.

  Just then he thought he caught a blur of movement by the doorway. He swung around but there was nothing there. He turned back to George.

  “Hey, you old fart!” He shook George’s shoulder roughly until his eyes opened. “Wake up!”

  George’s eyes slowly came into focus. “Wha—?”

  “How’d you do it?”

  “Go way!”

  George rolled onto his other side and Gil saw a patch of white gauze where he had been bleeding earlier. He flipped him onto his back again.

  “How’d you untie yourself, goddammit?”

  “Didn’t. My tenants—”

  “You stop talking that shit to me, old man!” Gil said, cocking his right arm.

  George flinched away but kept his mouth shut. Maybe he was finally learning.

  “You stay right there!”

  Gil tore through the drawers and piles of junk in the other room until he found some more cord. During the course of the search he came across a checkbook and some uncashed checks. He returned to the bedroom and began tying up George again.

  “Don’t know how you did it the first time, but you ain’t doing it again!”

  He spread-eagled George on the sheet and tied each skinny limb to a separate corner of the bed, looping the cord down and around on the legs of the frame. Each knot was triple-tied.