I pull my corvette off the interstate and onto the exit ramp. I decelerate and depress the window button, allowing the rushing air to flood my vehicle as I turn the air conditioning off. I delight in the immediate onrush of pure oxygen as it fills the enclosure of my vehicle and my senses delight in the myriad of odors that comes with it, even the foil ones.
What can I say, I prefer fresh air to manufactured atmosphere any day. Nothing makes me feel so alive as the sudden sensation of sensual revitalization. Not to mention it's cheaper so win win. That is until some researcher does a video on it and reveals that we're all morons. Ah, what can you do?
I drive onto a main thoroughfare for a short ride before turning onto my street. I pull the car up to the house and park on the curb. I exit the vehicle and gaze at the monstrous yacht that my brother-in-law purchased some two weeks ago and begged to park in my drive, temporarily, he assured me. That was three weeks ago and all the while I've been wondering just what he considers to be temporary.
Honestly, I thought better than that, he's not exactly known for being the most responsible fellow, but my wife begged me and I simply can't say no to that woman. It's why I married her. That's right, it was she that proposed to me. What can I say, we aren't exactly what you would consider a traditional couple. Ah, such memories, but I digress.
I reach into the car and snatch up my briefcase. I have a nice little surprise for Dianne. A token to mark the occasion of the day that we first professed our love for one another. I feel as though I'm walking on sunshine as I saunter up the walk to the front porch. I can feel each click of my heel against the steps, another testament to the joy I bring with me.
I put my hand to the doorknob and stop my progress all at once. It seems someone has taped a flier to the underside of the mail slot. A method meant to gain my attention and it has worked. I reach down and pluck it from its place and bring it closer to my eye. It's not a flier, it's an envelope. A blue envelope. I flip it over. Terry Bradford. It seems it's addressed to me.
I lift my briefcase bearing arm and take hold of it as I use my free hand to tear open the simple glue seal. I reach inside and withdraw all of the content thereof that is immediately noticeable, a piece of paper folded three times. I unfurl it and look upon the words written there. I drop my briefcase and find my lungs deplete of air as my fingers go an ashen white.
'1310 Eastmoore Drive. Maggie will be waiting,' it's the information that my eyes scan again and again to find the threads I can pull to unravel the sanity that lies within this insanity, but no matter how many times I look it remains the same. Everything feels cold to the touch and even my heart refuses to beat. It is as though this moment has been frozen in time.
I return to reality, such as it is, and look all around me, but find no immediate clue as to the leaver of such a message. Just the same empty street that I am accustomed to finding whenever I return home at this hour. No signs of life to be found anywhere. Ah, I miss the days of children playing in the streets. Everything seemed so simple in those days. But I digress, again.
I thoroughly search the paper container, but no matter how much I scour there is no more to be found inside, even tearing up the envelope reveals nothing more. As such, I crumple up the piece of paper and stuff it unceremoniously in my jacket pocket. I scan the immediate area once more before turning around and jumping back into my car.
I crank my baby to life, throw it into reverse and cut the wheel to the right. The car jumps onto the driveway and collides with the yacht. I ignore the bump that rocks my vehicle and speed back the way I came. The damage to my car and the boat is so far down my list of priorities that they don't even register as I am now a man on a mission and nothing will stand in my way.
I'm speeding down the road much faster than I should while the worry of being pulled over by the cops nips at my brain, but stays out of my peripheral. All the while my mind is a torrent that shows no chance of settling anytime soon. How could this have possibly happened?! We were so careful! How is it even feasible that anyone could have even learned of it?!
I take a moment to breathe as I careen through traffic. How and why are irrelevant at this point. All that matters is it happened and I have to act lest the secret get out and destroy all of our lives. I can hear the horns of irate drivers blaring at me which brings me out of my thoughts and throws me straight into the cold, waking reality that has me sweating all over my body.
I must have blacked out because, before I know it, I've arrived at my destination. I check over my body and find that I'm in one piece. After that I gaze around the world through my car's windows to see if I'd been pursued and am relieved to see no red and blue flashing lights heading in my direction. Whatever it was that took over is apparently a good driver.
I take a look at the house I have pulled in front of. It's dilapidated, to say the least, and I'm surprised it hasn't been torn down yet. But then, I'm not in the good part of town. I pull my phone from my pocket and contemplate calling my chums to help out. I decide against it. If there's a possibility that I might be able to handle this quickly and quietly then all the better.
I reach my hand into the crevice created by the driver's seat and console meeting. I wrap my digits around the object as a feeling of security washes over me. I reach down a bit further and undo the catch that holds both pieces in place. I remove them from the crevice and bring it closer to my gaze. In my hand is a nine millimeter pistol tucked inside a holster.
I unfix the safety strap and pull the gun out of the sleeve. I give it a quick once over before releasing the magazine and checking to see that it is full of bullets. I slide it back in place and pull back the charging slide before releasing it. It is now loaded. I put it back in the holster and clip it to my belt. Whoever is in there has no idea what they've unleashed, but they will learn.
I exit the car, close the door and walk up to the front door, the porch of which is a single, stone slab that's maybe five foot by two foot. I give myself a moment to take in the atmosphere. It looks like the structure is ready to fall into itself. A stiff wind and it's all over. A touch of the rusted doorknob makes me wish I'd had my tetanus shot beforehand.
I turn the knob and pull open the door which creaks rather noisily before I have a chance to halt its progress. So much for the element of surprise. I step inside and shut the door. The floor looks like it's ready to collapse under the strain of even a single feather. I'm debating with myself if I should even twitch. But I'm here for a job. So, my safety will just have to take a backseat.
I look in every direction. "Are you here you bastard?!" I shout at a level that conveys the seriousness of my conviction as I keep my hand near my holster.
"Where is Maggie?" a creeping voice calls out from the other room. The only identifier being it sounds masculine, but is definitely a stranger to me.
"What does it matter?" I call out as I walk across the creaking, cracking floorboards and pass into the next room.
I whip my head about, but see no person, just a floor strewn with broken booze bottles and three pieces of broken-down furniture. Specifically, an old hutch cabinet that looks as though someone had taken a massive sword and cut it straight down the middle, a chair whose upholstery has been absolutely shredded and a standing lamp which had been thrown to the floor and stomped all over.
"Where are you?!" I bellow as I continue to scan the room, since no visible person means they're speaking through a device which will likely lead back to the source.
"What did you do?" I hear the creeping voice coming from another room.
"What I had to do," I state in a much calmer, quieter voice as I grip the pistol but keep it holstered.
I make my way into the room from which the voice had spoken which is the next room over. It's just as empty with half the broken glass and several crushed beer cans. The furniture reminds me of a dining room with a broken table that looks like someone was body slammed onto it and there are bits of ceramic pieces scattered around.
"Why did you do it?" the creeping voice asks from the next room.
This time I choose not to answer. My reasons are my own and I do not feel inclined to answer to anyone. I walk into the next room. The same debris greets me and at this time I just don't care enough to properly survey my surroundings, but I am surprised that the floor continues to hold me as it pops, creaks and cracks with every step I take.
"Can you really weigh a life and determine that it's worth less than any other life?" the creeping voice queries from yet another room.
I move inside. This puts me near full circle of the four rooms of the first floor. There is only one room that I have not visited. Instead of waiting around for the voice to speak and only then search for it, I cross into the final room and hold perfectly still in the center while I listen intently.
"Is it possible to determine if a life is worth saving?" the creeping voice speaks not from the room I'm in, but back in the hallway where I had first entered the house.
Confused, I carry on as I listen the best I can to whatever sound should greet me as I pass through the open doorway. Still nothing, just as empty and lifeless as the rest of the house has been. I keep my eyes open. Whatever is happening I intend to spot it and deal with it without further delay.
Suddenly, a very unsettling thought enters my mind and takes up residence there. Have I been imagining this whole ordeal? The notion is not alone. Had I really received an invitation taped to my door? Is the voice I hear even real? It seems to me that insanity is the only explanation. After all, I had buried our secret deep. There is no way anyone could know.
"What if it is the nature of secrets to reveal themselves?" the creeping voice calls out from the top of the stairs that lead to the second floor.
That's it! I've had enough of this scavenger hunt! It's time to cut to the chase!
I cross the floor and care not if I should fall through. I open the door that lies beneath the stairwell that connects the first and second floor. I pass into the cold darkness that envelopes the stairwell which leads to the basement. I curse myself for not having brought a flashlight with me, but closer inspection reveals a strange bluish light that is projecting from below.
My steps down the stairs are being fueled by two opposing forces, the caution that so ruined a structure demands and the curiosity that pushes me to investigate further. I reach the bottom and slowly creep along the floor while staying close to the wall. Whatever lies ahead of me has turned my blood cold and I am not a man who is easily scared.
The blue light covers the scene, but I am not searching for the source of so strange an illumination. Rather, my eyes are preoccupied with the hole that has been created in the floor as though a crushing weight had settled there and it was too much for the floorboards to bear. All along the opening are jagged pieces of wood sticking out into the air.
An ill feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, creating a kind of lump which refuses to be dissolved in its acids. Step by step I continue onward. No longer do I register anything outside of my immediate vision. I can't even hear the sound of the creaking floor and I do not believe I could stop my body from moving yet further. It is as though I am possessed.
I finally regain control just in time to stop in front of the hole which houses a sight that binds my heart and refuses to let it beat. A beautiful ring of flowers circles the entirety of the depression and they encircle the form of a young woman sleeping deeply, wearing a white dress and holding a bouquet of black roses. But the image is transparent and reveals the decayed body that is wrapped in a tattered dress of red.
Once I'm able to tear my eyes away I flash them all about the room even as a sweat breaks out over my forehead. This sight is simply impossible and I have reason to believe the voice is responsible. The basement has many crevices and corners to hide inside as well as several pieces of large furniture that could easily cover a cowering figure.
"I have given her a proper funeral, unlike the shoddy grave you threw her into," the creeping voice returns from just over my shoulder.
I spin about and reach my hand for the pistol on my hip. I hold my hand there ready to draw as I face an empty room. I know he is in here, I just can't see him for some reason.
"Did you really think you'd get away with it?" the creeping voice asks right inside my ear.
I spin about, but this time I draw my weapon. Unfortunately my zeal has me reaching too far and as I withdraw the pistol from its holster my finger squeezes the trigger and discharges a bullet which lodges in my leg. The thigh to be exact. I hit the floor and grit my teeth as the pain explodes within my brain and my gun falls from my hand.
I look down at my bleeding wound and then stare at the far wall. I use whatever brain cells I can to will myself to stop feeling pain. My relief comes from an unexpected source. The shadow in front of the wall starts moving and a figure materializes from it. I'd say it was just a hallucination, from the pain, but it keeps moving and soon stands near to my front. A booted foot kicks the pistol away and it slides till it hits the stairs.
I take in the figure before me. Black boots. Black pants. Black hoodie, hood pulled up. Black gloves. Simple build. No real muscle mass or definition. If I hadn't shot myself I could have taken him easily. Then I look at his face and my jaw hangs agape. Somehow there is an obscuring shadow that completely covers the face, but leaves the eyes visible.
"Have you finished?" the creeping voice cuts through the shadowed face, while the body does not move.
I stare at him with all the fury I possess in my wounded state. "Yeah and who are you, some big hero?!" I throw back through clenching teeth. "Are you gonna beat the hell out of me and drag me around for all the world to see?!"
He steps forward and squats down so we're eye level. "Why did you kill her?" he asks as he stares with bright green eyes that look right through me and into my very soul.
His question is without any further description, but I know exactly who he's talking about. I try to stand up, but my wound will not allow it. "What's it to you?" I speak, maintaining myself despite the urge to cry. Yeah, I said it, sometimes a big tough guy like me feels the urge to cry. Especially when I have a bullet hole in my thigh.
"Why did you kill her?" he repeats the question and stares all the more intently.
I feel my resolve fading and the secret in my brain leaking out and finding its way to my tongue. "Her name was Megan Wiles, but everybody called her Maggie," I start my confession while the rest of me tries to stop my words, unsuccessfully. "The word was out and about town that she was a slut who would sleep with anyone and do anything."
"But they were wrong, weren't they," he speaks in a manner that cannot be defined as statement or question as his eyes lessen their brightness.
I nod and take a swallow of air. "We were at a dance and she was all alone," I continue to babble despite myself and I sit back a little further. "I approached her and she was delighted for some company. We danced the night away, almost to a literal sense. It was twelve O'clock when we finally left. I ushered her to my car with the promise of keeping the night going. I opened the door for her and shut it when she was inside. Having privacy for the first time that night I called up my friends, Barry and Steven. Told them my plan and where to meet."
"1310 Eastmoore Drive," he recites as he shifts his weight from the middle to his right leg.
I nod again. "It was a shithole even then," I prattle on and feel my muscles relax. "We stopped out front and I brought in a bottle of vodka. We drank while we danced away in one of the rooms. All the while my friends were just out of sight. I was waiting till the bottle was empty and made sure she got the lion's share. I started to undress her and her moans told me she was ready. I had intended to get her more in the mood, but my friends got too excited. They jumped in and all but tore her dress off of her."
"Three against one," the man points out and shifts his weight again.
"Yes!" I declare aloud with a voice that shakes the walls before opting for a quieter tone while tears stream down my face. "She started screaming and the three of us let go. She got really angry and swore she'd call the cops. Swore she'd post it all over the internet. Swore she'd tell the honor roll committee. I attacked her. I threw her against the wall and I repeatedly punched her again and again. My friends tried to stop me, but I was much stronger than them and they couldn't hold me."
"You beat a helpless woman, why?" the man asks of me as he sinks one of his knees to the floor.
"Because the honor roll committee had lined up a scholarship for me. It was my ticket to a better life. And it worked," I protest, but I know he doesn't care. He just wants me to keep going and at this point I'm not even trying to hold back. "I just kept punching till her face was a bloody mess. One big open sore from which blood just kept pouring out. Her body hit the floor and she left a nasty mess that just continued to pool. My friends saw the situation and swore they'd help. I think they were just scared I'd come after them if they hadn't. So we took up the floorboards that had been built into the middle of the basement and threw her body inside before putting them back in place. That's it."
"That may be the end of the tale, but it is not the end of your sin," he insists as he moves his face a little closer.
"What do you mean? What are you talking about?" I inquire with genuine interest as I find my body is under my own control again.
"What did you do?" he asks and moves his face a little closer.
"I, I don't understand," I trip over my words while I start to pull back.
"What did you do?" he repeats and gets a little closer.
"I already told you everything. What more do you want from me?" I'm practically begging as I feel him digging into my head.
"What did you do?" he says yet again and moves closer.
"I, I attempted to gang rape a girl," I feel the information pouring out of me as though I were vomiting the truth.
"And?" the word practically stabs me in the face as his eyes intensify.
"I beat a girl to death," the truth just keeps coming out and I use my hand to probe my face where it feels like the invisible dagger had been driven.
"No!" he shouts for the first time as he puts his face just inches from mine. "You did not beat a woman to death."
"But I did, I," I say before the understanding of what is being implied overshadows my brain. "I didn't beat a woman to death. I beat a woman near to death and buried her alive."
He stands up.
"How do you know that? How could you possibly know that?" I scramble for answers as I attempt to stand, but only fall back down again.
He picks up a stray piece of floorboard and hands it to me. All along its surface are deep scratches bearing blood and bits of purple fingernails. The color she wore that night, and they weren't press-on. She was still alive. I buried her and she was still alive. I didn't mean to. I was just so full of rage that night. The things she said, they just set me off.
I continue thinking. That's right, it's not my fault. She pushed my buttons. She didn't stop pushing my buttons. She dug down till she hit a nerve. She should have known better. You don't poke the bear and you certainly don't keep poking it. What did she think was going to happen? She freaked out and made it so much worse. I'm the real victim. My thoughts are interrupted by a creak from the steps.
I look over to see him starting to walk up them. "Where do you think you're going?!" I shout after him and drag my wounded leg along. "You think that your word will stand against mine in court?!"
He just keeps walking.
"You have no idea what kind of hornets' nest you're stepping into!" I continue to shout as I reach the steps and fall onto them as I look after his retreating form. "I became somebody and that somebody has a lot of power and influence over the city. I will bury you!"
He doesn't even check his step. He just walks right out the door and shuts it behind him. No sooner is he gone then the blue light disappears and the basement turns dark. I drag myself along as my eyes adjust to the dark. When it's all said and done, I find myself in the middle of the hole and find nothing but solid floor.
What the hell happened to me?! Had I been slipped drugs?! That must be it. This whole ordeal is just some bad acid trip which must have been dropped into the coffee I had before I left work. Which of the assholes I work with would have done this to me? Too many to even begin to count. That's what I get for being the best salesman the firm has ever seen.
Well, I can't just lie here bleeding out. I set my hands to the floor and lift my body off the floor push-up style. I take a deep breath, hold it and raise my wounded leg to my chest as I push the air out of my lungs. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but I manage it through clenched teeth. Now comes the hard part. I bring my other knee up and shift my weight onto it as I stand up.
I let myself shift and feel the pain surging through my leg. After which I retrieve my gun and return it to its holster. I do whatever I can to get myself out of this damn house and back into my car which includes thinking of something else. I think about how a shrink would have a field day with my hallucination. Repressed guilt, shame, resentment, the whole nine yards.
Over and over, they would roll on with the questions and most likely connect it to my childhood and my parents' overall attentions. And then the real freak show would begin. You know what they're like: I want to castrate my father and take his place, sleep with my mother and all of my female relations, take my place as king and rule all with my dick held in hand. So predictable.
But you want to know what I think? I think the drugs that were used on me brought their own garbage into the fray. I mean what was with the whole shadow bit? Overly melodramatic if you ask me. And the body, all laid out like a funeral? Okay, that was pretty trippy and more than a little Goth. Black roses? That's some emo stuff right there.
I make it out to my car and open the door. I prepare myself for the pain that is to come when I stop myself. I gaze at my leather interior and decide I'll be damned if I ruin it. I take off my dress jacket and tie it around my leg. A new jacket wouldn't cost anything near what getting my leather cleaned would. I stash my gun back in its place and take off.
I drive myself to the hospital, park the car, check myself in and after a fifty minute wait I'm taken to an examination room. You may think it a bit extreme that a gunshot wouldn't get me catapulted to the front of the line, but this isn't a high-end facility and one look in the emergency room will tell you I'm not the worse by far. Some are a real horror show.
I'm of course asked what happened while the nursing staff work with what resources they have and I make up a story about an armed mugger who tried to take my wallet. I wasn't intimidated by his threat and the fact that he obviously had nothing more than maybe a pocket knife protruding from his jacket pocket. So we struggled and his very real gun went off into my leg. This caused the mugger to flee.
Of course the cops are called in and they ask for a description. I pull up a memory of a movie I once saw some years back and give that as my bad guy while adding a few tweaks just in case they've seen the same movie. And the location, a nice little out of the way spot that has some crime. You don't get to be a stellar salesman without being able to think on your feet.
The whole time I'm giving my account and listening to the police go on, a little thought keeps chewing at my brain. Drug trip aside, what if the guy was real? He has all the information he needs to become a damn nuisance in my life and drag me kicking and screaming through the mud. Ultimately he would lose. My threats were not idle, but it would be a lengthy process.
By the time the cops depart I realize that the bomb I fear would be dropped on me, the one that labels me a murderer, was a weapon not in their arsenal. At least, it's one they decided not to employ at this time. Could these flatfoots be playing the long game with me? Ultimately, it doesn't matter. I can handle whatever they dish out.
The cops leave me with a little advice: it's a lot cheaper to give one's valuables than to spend even one night in the hospital. After them it's the doctor's turn. She recommends surgery to dig the bullet out. I have no other recourse. I ask for a moment to call my wife. I get her on the phone and feed her the same fake story I gave to the police. I've gotta be consistent after all.
She's worried and more than a little frantic as she asks after me. I give the basic information. Minor surgery, short stay to recover. She's still beside herself, but I know how to make her feel better. I ask about my briefcase. She says she found it on the porch. She has a million questions, but I cut through all of them when I tell her to open it. It's just a bunch of papers she says. I tell her to keep looking.
She finds the box hidden underneath the papers. I tell her to open it. I pull my phone away from my ear. Within three seconds I hear the squeal of absolute delight. I wait till it subsides before placing the phone back to my ear. She thanks me a thousand times. It's exactly what she wanted for a long time. I ride the wave of good vibes as it takes the two of us on a magical journey. But all good things must come to an end.
I tell her that I have to go, but I'll call her back as soon as I'm out of surgery and coherent enough to use a phone. We kiss over the wire and end the call and she makes me promise to ring her first thing. I love that woman. I turn around to face the doctor when a nagging thought enters my brain and pushes all other thoughts away. I have a phone call to make.
I use the conference function on my phone to call both of my buddies at the same time. They pick up and we have a nice chat, a chat that doesn't involve dead girls or shadow men. It would seem it was just a bad drug trip after all, with all the trimmings. The call ends with us promising to meet soon. I decided not to tell them about my accident.
I turn to the doctor, and I'm set in a wheelchair before being rolled down a hallway into a room where I am prepped for surgery. Another hallway and I'm in surgery. They help me on to the table and I lie back. A mask is fitted over my face and I breathe in the gas pouring through the hose. My eyes grow heavy and the world starts to swirl as the colors collide. Everything goes dark. Everything is going to be just fine.