Karma

by Grant McKenzie

  This time the heading read: We’ll be in Touch.

  “Fuck you,” Hackett yelled at the computer. “How the hell do you know what I said to the police?”

  His own question stopped him cold.

  More importantly, he thought, how in hell did the sender know he lied?

  The kettle began to whistle, but Hackett was no longer in the mood for tea.

  Chapter 16

  Eric Twain studied the half-dozen customers who sucked back coffee and a colorful assortment of donuts around tables in the warm comfort of the 16th Avenue Tim Hortons.

  Outside, a steady stream of traffic headed west through Calgary on a continuation of the TransCanada. The four-lane highway ran deep into the Rocky Mountains, skirting by Banff and Lake Louise before climbing Roger’s Pass and sliding into the lush valley and hills of British Columbia’s Okanagan valley. The traffic was just as steady going east to the urban sprawl of industrial parks and indistinguishable suburbs.

  Beyond the city limits, a straight road and flat horizon led back to everything Eric had left behind.

  He wondered if once it was all over he would find himself returning to this coffee shop to thumb a ride back to Biggar, back to Jacqueline, and stepping fresh into a life without the Other.

  He had his doubts, but he needed to hold onto some kind of hope if he didn’t want to lose his nerve about the task that lay ahead.

  A burly man in a black Rolling Stones T-shirt, his face obscured behind a tangle of untrimmed brown and gray facial hair, chuckled over a headline in the Calgary Sun before thumbing ahead to the nearly full-page picture of the daily, bikini-clad Sunshine Girl. Eric had noticed his arrival twenty minutes earlier in a long-haul semi truck that looked as if it could barely pass road inspection.

  Eric approached with eyes downcast as though on the verge of tears.

  “Excuse me, mister,” he said softly.

  The man looked up from his paper and scratched at his nose.

  “I won’t give you any money, kid,” he said before Eric could explain. “Just don’t believe in it. But I’ve been hungry before, so I’ll buy you a sandwich and bowl of soup if you need it.”

  Eric smiled. “That’s very generous of you, sir. But I was actually hoping for a ride.”

  “A ride?”

  “Yeah, my aunt is sick in Vancouver. I’m trying to get there to visit her.”

  “Where’s your folks?”

  “They went up last week. She didn’t seem so bad then.”

  “You a farm kid?”

  Eric blushed slightly. “Does it show?”

  “Not really, but city kids tend to read too much of this crap.” He held up the tabloid. “To trust travel to their thumb.”

  Eric shrugged. “I was supposed to take the bus, but things have—”

  “No need to explain to me, kid.” The man got to his feet and pulled on a bulky denim jacket lined with sheepskin that had likely once been white but now bore the sickly off-yellow color of nicotine. “Been there, done that, got the Penicillin jabs to prove it. Get your bags.”

  Eric quickly grabbed his backpack and the long black cylinder.

  “How far you going?” Eric asked.

  “All the way to sin city, kid. We should hit Van in about 13 hours. I take a short break in Salmon Arm. There’s a girl there who cleans my pipes good and proper for a bottle of Newfoundland Screech. Treat her nice and she may even gobble you up, too.”

  The trucker laughed heartily as he headed for the door.

  Eric trailed along behind, his face a sallower shade of pale.

  Chapter 17

  HACK: I have a problem

  FATS: No shit. You have to page so early?

  HACK: Fraid so, pal. Couldn’t stick my thumb up my ass until u dragged your carcass out of bed

  FATS: Wouldn’t be the first time

  HACK: Hey, u sleep with a vibrating pager down your shorts, u pay the price

  FATS: It’s under my pillow

  HACK: More fun in your shorts

  FATS: 2 early for this. I haven’t made coffee yet

  HACK: Get it delivered. This is serious

  FATS: OK. What’s the prob?

  HACK: Quick rundown: Cops arrive this morning. U’ll understand once you see the Times cover. Dicks question me and leave. No problem. Then I get an anonymous email asking why I lied.

  FATS: Did U?

  HACK: Did I what?

  FATS: Lie

  HACK: Kind of. Not really. Maybe

  FATS: Thanks for clearing that up

  HACK: I don’t have it straight in my own head yet

  FATS: OK. How did our anonymous friend know U lied?

  HACK: I don’t know. That’s the problem

  FATS: Send me the email. I’ll look into it

  HACK: Appreciate it. Should I get a bug detector and sweep my apartment?

  FATS: If it’ll make U feel better, but I can’t see anybody going to the expense. Chances are more likely it’s someone who saw the cops going into your place and decided to mess with you. Who doesn’t lie to the police? And even if you don’t, you still feel U might have. Human nature

  HACK: Makes sense

  FATS: Course it does. But just in case, tickle that brain of yours and see if any names pop up of lonely bastards who might want to listen in

  HACK: Hell, half the time I don’t even pay attention to my conversations, why would anyone else?

  FATS: Can’t help U there. I’d still rather be sleeping myself

  HACK: LOL. Thanks for the help

  FATS: I’ll look at the email after coffee. OK?

  HACK: Cheers

  Chapter 18

  “Did you hear us in there?” The woman’s breath was thick with rum and peanut butter.

  Eric sat nervously on a couch, his hands clutched in his lap, eyes downcast. The woman stood in front of him in barely-there denim cutoffs and a white, sleeveless muscle shirt. Eric could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra because nipples the size of his thumbs poked through the thin material. She finished licking a dollop of peanut butter off a spoon and dropped it on the coffee table, where it stuck before it could bounce.

  “He’s a groaner.” She arched her back in a stretch, which made the shirt vacuum-form against her breasts. “Sure appreciates a good tongue lashing, though.”

  She licked her lips and took another swig of rum from a tall water glass before plopping down beside him on the couch.

  “How old are you?” she asked. “Or you too shy to say?”

  “Fifteen,” Eric said.

  The woman stroked his hair and the heat from her breasts radiated against the skin of his arm.

  “Ever had a girl do that to you?”

  Eric stayed silent.

  “Ever licked pussy?”

  The woman laughed at the boy’s uncomfortable silence and plucked an ice cube from her glass of rum. She rubbed it on her right nipple, the cold making it rigid and the moisture turning the cloth transparent.

  “Do you like girls?” Her voice was huskier now.

  Eric nodded.

  “Do you like tits?”

  The woman slipped her thumbs into the armholes of the shirt and tugged until both breasts flopped out. Eric noticed they appeared to be slightly different sizes.

  “You can touch them,” the woman urged. “Go on.”

  Eric reached out to stroke the smooth skin. It was softer and warmer than he imagined. His finger circled the engorged nipple.

  “Mmmm,” the woman moaned. “Pinch it.”

  Eric pinched it.

  “Harder.”

  Eric pinched it harder.

  “That feels so good,” the woman encouraged. “Is it making you hard?”

  Eric gasped as the woman expertly opened his zipper and released his soft cock from his jockeys.

  “I think this turtle needs more encouragement.”

  The woman bent her head to his lap, her mouth locking onto his penis. Her tongue teased its tip and slid down to lap at his bal
ls.

  Eric closed his eyes, his hands squeezing her large, soft breasts, trying to make his penis react.

  “YOU PIG!” The voice screamed in Eric’s ear and he opened his eyes to see the Other’s head in his lap, its mouth sucking at his organ.

  Eric screamed and pushed it away.

  “Stop it!” he cried in a high-pitched wail. “Leave me alone! Can’t you leave me alone?”

  “Fuck you, pal! That little thing’s not worth the effort.”

  The Other’s face vanished in an instant and Eric saw the woman, eyes hazy with alcohol, her breasts flopping out the armholes of her shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “It’s not you.”

  “Hey, save it,” she snarled. “Like I give a flying fuck about a runt like you.” The woman looked down at her glass in disgust. “You spilled my drink.”

  They both turned as the trucker walked in.

  “Your friend has a problem,” the woman snapped.

  Angrily stuffing her breasts back inside her shirt, the woman headed for the kitchen to refresh her drink.

  The trucker stared down at Eric and shrugged. “Ready to go, little man?”

  Eric nodded, his face flushed and on the verge of tears.

  The trucker motioned to the front door. “Let’s do it, then. Next stop, sin city.”

  The woman never returned to wave them off.

  Chapter 19

  The slap stunned him.

  Hackett hadn’t expected the warmest of welcomes, but he was still shocked when his widowed aunt rose from her armchair and slapped him hard across the face.

  “How could you!” she screamed. “How could you show him like that?”

  “I-I didn’t know,” Hackett stammered.

  His aunt collapsed back into the chair, her sobbing devolving into a gut-wrenching keen, as a host of unknown mourners swarmed around her in a protective cocoon of condolences and sympathy.

  Uncle Frank, his meaty face folded in on itself like a wasp-stung bull, broke through the crowd to lock a painful policeman’s grip around Hackett’s elbow. Without a word, Frank dragged him to the kitchen.

  As soon as he cleared the kitchen’s swinging door, Hackett saw his mother standing at the small island, a bread knife in her hand, busily making cheese and potted meat sandwiches. Frank’s wife, Carol, their son Frankie, and Hackett’s now-fatherless cousins, the redheaded twins Wynn and Jessie, were helping.

  “Mom, you OK?” Hackett asked.

  Her response was lost as Frank broke through the swinging door and clipped Hackett soundly across the ear.

  “Hey!” Hackett protested.

  “Hey, nothin’.”

  Frank’s eyes were red-rimmed and scattershot, the smell of whiskey wafted around him like an ever-present fog. He snapped a copy of the Times newspaper off the kitchen counter and waved it in Hackett’s face.

  “What the hell are you playin’ at?” Frank yelled. “You think the family needs this?”

  “I didn’t know it was Bob. Christ! I only took the photo.” Hackett’s anger was too hot to contain and the words left his lips before he could stop himself. “I wasn’t the one in the fucking toilet stall with God knows who.”

  Frank crushed the newspaper in his hands, and the look that made his eyes burn white-hot said it could have just as easily been Hackett’s throat.

  “He was my brother,” Frank seethed. “Your mother’s brother, your ... ” His voice broke. “What would your Da think?”

  Hackett held up his hands. “Don’t bring my father into this, Uncle Frank. You'd think he was some kind of patron saint, the way you always—”

  Frank’s fist shot out, but stopped an inch short of Hackett’s face. Frank held it there, his face a purple bruise, his hand clenched so tight that the knuckles had turned white. The fist vibrated in the air as though it took a lot of effort not to finish its intended task.

  Hackett didn’t flinch.

  “You want to hit me?” he said scornfully. “My father’s not here, so you feel the need to step up to the plate?” Hackett’s jaw trembled from the pressure of his clenched teeth. “Go ahead.”

  Before Frank could react, Hackett’s mother burst into tears, breaking the moment.

  Aunt Carol instantly wrapped her arms around the distraught woman and guided her out of the kitchen. Cousin Frankie, his expression hidden behind a mop of straw blond hair, quickly escorted the twins behind.

  Frank turned his shoulder and unleashed his fist on a nearby cupboard door. Dishes and glassware clattered inside.

  CHANDRA WATCHED THE family exodus from the kitchen and immediately attempted to move through the thick crowd. The tension in the room was palpable and as she threaded through knots of mourners, strands of babbled conversation lapped over her in whispered waves.

  “What was he doing in that horrible place to begin with?” one mourner said.

  “Probably trying to help some young addict. You know how he was,” said another.

  “Too big a heart I say.”

  “But still ... you have to ask.”

  IN THE KITCHEN, Frank rubbed his knuckles and his tone softened into one of disappointment. “You happy now?”

  Hackett snorted. “Yeah, Uncle Frank. This is exactly what I wanted. As if the family doesn’t judge me enough. Fuck! Nothing I ever do is good enough for you, is it? You always want me to be something I’m not, something I can’t live up to no matter what.”

  He paused and ran his hands through jet-black hair. “I took a photo. It’s my job.”

  “And this is what you want to do with your life?” asked Frank. “Preying on other people’s misery? Your own family—”

  “It beats causing it,” Hackett snapped.

  “You know I won’t hear that.” Frank’s anger flared again.

  “No, of course not! Denial is your fortitude. Why should today be any different?”

  “Your father was a bloody hero. He saved the lives of four officers that day ... he sacrificed ...” Frank’s voice broke.

  “That’s true,” Hackett agreed. “He was a hero that day, Uncle Frank, but what about the day before, or the week before that? Does one brave act make up for—”

  Frank slammed his hand on the counter, the force of it rattling the dishes again, just as the door swung open.

  Chandra burst into the kitchen with her hand held out to Hackett.

  “We’re leaving,” she said.

  OUTSIDE, HACKETT HELD the passenger door of his Jeep for Chandra to climb inside.

  When he returned to the driver’s side, he glanced back at the house. His mom stood on the steps with the front door slightly ajar. Her face was a crumpled mask of despair.

  Hackett raised his hand to wave, but she turned her back on him to re-enter the muffled interior of teacups and tears.

  Chapter 20

  Hackett parked outside Chandra’s apartment.

  “Well, that was horrible,” he said.

  “You sure you don’t want to come up?”

  Hackett nodded.

  “You going to be okay?” Chandra pressed.

  “My head’s messed up,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t be much company.”

  “We don’t have to talk,” Chandra teased. Her pink tongue darted mischievously from between painted lips.

  Hackett smiled. “I appreciate that, but I think I need a little solo time.”

  Chandra leaned over and kissed him, her lips soft and warm against his own.

  “Don’t start doubting yourself, Hackboy,” she said gently. “It was a hell of a shot.”

  “I just need time to put it right in my head. My cousins looked pretty shell-shocked and I was to blame.”

  “You didn’t kill him,” Chandra said. “No matter what you think, you’re not the one who left him to die on that grubby bathroom floor. Remember that.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That’s what I need to get clear in my head.”

  “You need anything, call me.”

  Chandra kiss
ed him again and then was gone, the shape of her body parting the rain for an instant before vanishing within.

  Chapter 21

  At home, Hackett stared at the computer screen. The blonde was flashing him. He felt nervous about opening his mail, afraid of what might be waiting.

  Fuck it!

  He pushed away from the desk and crossed to the bookshelf where he pressed a finger down on the Buddha’s tiny porcelain hedgehog. As he rolled a joint, he told the phone to play its messages.

  “Tom? Bill here. Fucking brilliant on the photo last night. My shooters are pissed and the phones have been ringing off the hook. Half the readers want to lynch your cold-hearted ass, while the rest say you’re a shoo-in for a goddamn prize. Same with the editors. They’ve been in meetings all day trying to decide if they made the right call or not. Dumbfucks. Anyways, you get more juicy stuff make sure I’m number one on your speed dial.”

  Hackett inhaled the fragrant smoke and held it deep in his lungs, feeling the burn. When he exhaled, he did so through a silly grin. The Times shooters were pissed. That was a pleasing thought.

  The second message began.

  “Tommy? It’s Uncle Frank. I must have missed you. Damn. If you’re still there, you shouldn’t come to Gloria’s today. That picture you took . . .” A pause. “Christ, Tommy, what a mess.”

  Hackett inhaled another lungful of smoke.

  One for, one against.

  The third message bothered him the most. It was the squeak and squawk of either a fax or an old dial-up modem.

  Hackett moved to his computer and opened his fax inbox. It was empty. Next, he checked his email. It was mostly spam, except for two. The first was from Fats.

  ‘This guy’s clever. He’s looped the loops through several anonymous remailers. Can’t trace the origin, yet. Will keep trying. Sorry.’

  The second was blank, except for the subject header that read simply: Tonight.

  “Bring it on,” Hackett snarled through bared teeth as he sucked in another lungful of smoke. “Bring it the fuck on.”