by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 28: BRENDA
I was in the kitchen. My English muffin popped from the toaster the second the phone rang, like the appliances had been secretly communicating. You know how that sometimes happens?
The caller ID said “Dwight Powell.” I don’t know how I remember that but I do. Don’t know why I picked up either. Could’ve just as easily let the machine tell the caller he misdialed. I wonder if that would’ve changed anything.
The voice. I’d never heard it before. It rang false, acted. It was too soft and shaky to come across hard, but the speaker was trying. “You wanna see your husband again, bitch?” Like that. Like a tasteless prank call from an undisciplined brat.
I asked who it was, even though I have caller ID. Habit. Dwight Powell.
That wasn’t his real name? Whatever.
He said--
No. I’m fine.
He said he was the guy who was going to kill Adam. Then I heard Adam and I knew it wasn’t a joke. They hung up. The dial tone hurt, like a slap. My knees trembled. My shoulders-- Actually, I won’t bother to describe all the involuntary bodily symptoms of my terror. I can’t remember them anyway.
I wanted to call 911. Actually, my first impulse was to call my dad, though he couldn’t help in any practical way. I wanted to use the phone, but I wasn’t sure how. I didn’t know what to do. What’s the protocol? I tried to remember what usually happens in those movies after the kidnappers call. I couldn’t remember. A thousand movies and I couldn’t remember a single one. And it reminded me of a movie, a corny, basic cable story. “Just when she thought things were fine, her world got turned upside down.”
The phone rang. Scared the hell out of me. I dropped it on the counter and it slipped around as I fumbled for it. Meanwhile, I frantically tabulated how much of a ransom I could gather. I reached a number but it didn’t matter. The ransom wasn’t money. The kid told me to kill Zeke. The deal was, if I killed Zeke Ravella, I’d get Adam back. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I was like, “Look, I’ll pay whatever you want.” But this person hated Zeke more than they loved money, a point of view I’ve come to appreciate.
They hung up after dropping that bombshell. In some abstract way, I instantly visualized myself killing Zeke. Like, I saw him falling over. Nowhere in particular. His body collapsing in a vacuum.
They called again. I don’t know why they needed multiple calls to get their information across, why they didn’t get it over with at once. To toy with me? This call warned me against contacting you guys, obviously, and to say they were watching me. Then they hung up. This time, it seemed final. There wasn’t much more they needed to say.
Yeah, I know now, but there was no way to know then. I’m going to keep saying “them” and “they” because at the time I had to assume this was a complicated, well-organized plot put together by a professional criminal ring. After all, they had captured Adam, a trained officer, and they had amassed some significant information: who Zeke was, who Adam was, where we lived.
Nix that last part. Any loon can find us from the goddamn phone book. It doesn’t take a master criminal to ferret out where we live. You know, I told Adam a million times to take us out of the book. What detective has a listed number? He’d promise he would, then a new book would arrive and I’d find out he hadn’t. He’d apologize and defend himself by claiming that he wanted to keep it in case someone might need him. Who? For what? God, it made me so mad when he’d pull that. It made no sense. Need him? Well, your wish was granted.
Anyway, I was paralyzed with self-consciousness. “And we’re watching?” There were cameras in the house for all I knew. It took a while before I felt comfortable moving, but I loosened enough to toss out the English muffin. I did it slow and deliberate like I was a nervous actor on stage for the first time. I peeked out the kitchen window and didn’t see anyone. That didn’t mean much. Someone could’ve been out of sight, hiding with binoculars.
I went to the living room. There’s a small patch of woods across the street. Through a slit in the curtains, I couldn’t see any movement. That didn’t mean much. It would make a great cover. That’s where I would hang out if I was spying.
I did notice, though, that there weren’t any strange vehicles parked. Even in my delusional paranoia, I understood if cameras were in the house, there needed to be a van nearby loaded with monitors. No van, no cameras in the house.
But I swore the woods were full of people. I sensed them, which was worse than seeing them. A stranger on the lawn staring back at me would’ve provided some comfort.
I didn’t know what to do. What would you do? So I plopped down on the couch and did nothing. Well, I thought, but they were insensible thoughts. Like, wouldn’t it be great if they called back and said, “Ha ha. You’re on a shitty hidden camera show?” Or, like, was this was the most vivid dream I’ve ever had in my life and how would I know it wasn’t? How could I prove it? Pinch myself? What does pinching yourself prove? Can’t you dream you’re pinching yourself? But I knew it wasn’t a dream. I knew because everything was coated with the dirty film that always covers reality, giving Life its special look. The dreamworld can’t replicate it. At least, my dreamworld can’t.
Then I wondered if this ordeal would get me a few minutes on Oprah. I’m not a huge fan, but wouldn’t it be nice to be a minor celebrity for a week or so? Wouldn’t everyone at the flower shop be so jealous?
Work. I had to call off work.
I prayed that anyone but Melody would answer. I wasn’t at the praying stage yet about the kidnapping, but loud and distinct, I beseeched the powers of the universe to spare me from her.
Melody owns Melody’s Flowers don’t you know, and she takes an intense and unwelcomed interest in her employees. Too bad none of us can stand her. I suppose she’s nice, but she’s nice like Satan was when he tempted Jesus. I don’t trust her. No one can be that nice without an ulterior motive. I’d like her more if she was vicious on occasion. For some reason or for no reason, she likes me more than she likes the others. I don’t know what sin I’ve committed to deserve that cruel punishment.
Well, it wasn’t the first time my prayers were ignored. She was bubbly and cheery, just to annoy me. I made my spiel as short as she’d let me. “It’s Brenda. Sick. A cold. Can’t work.” Of course, she was devastated by the news, not that I wouldn’t be coming in but that I was under the weather. And to fall so rapidly too, since I had been fine the day before.
Oh, by some wonderful coincidence, she had some leftover chicken soup and although she was really busy, and would be even busier without me, she’d find time to go home and fetch the soup and bring it to me even though I lived out of the way. What a bitch.
I said, “No. Please no,” and hung up on her saying, “It’s no problem.” I’m sure I was rude enough. As far as I know, she never came by. She’ll find out soon enough my illness was a lie. Won’t she just be crushed that I fibbed?
The phone was in my hand. I dialed 9 and 1, then gave up. That they had placed cameras and microphones in the house might be far fetched, but tapping the phones seemed easy enough, right? Don’t ask me why I thought that, what logic I used. More and more bits of my rational mind were crumbling by the minute. Adam had been kidnapped. I had been directed to kill Zeke. After that, what criteria do you have left for what’s sound and what isn’t?
Look, hindsight’s twenty-twenty, but yesterday morning, I was blindfolded and groping in the dark. I now know almost everything I thought yesterday morning was wrong. I know there was no massive conspiracy. Now I get that this was the doing of a lone mentally deranged punk. The phones weren’t tapped. No one watched me. Wait. Come to think of it, I wasn’t completely off base. Wasn’t one of yours watching the house?
I’m calm enough now--numbed more like--but I dropped the phone and cried and pulled out hairs one at a time. I’d twirl my finger around a strand, then yank. Repeat. Why? I don’t know. Didn’t lessen my anxiety, didn’t ease my tension, but I didn’t know what else to
do.
Because calling for help was out of the question. The only call I could make was to Zeke. Or to Dwight Powell to tell him twisted mission accomplished. Who he was? A gangster with a vendetta? And if he had the resources to set up such an elaborate kidnapping, why couldn’t he kill Zeke himself? Or use the people watching me? And why me? What made them think I could kill someone? Could I? In the right circumstances, maybe. To save someone. It’s such a generic, hypothetical example from an ethics textbook: would you kill someone to save someone else? But it was real.
Actually, I once had some preparation for dealing with this issue. Well, I thought I did. I take it I can reference an event that might be construed as illegal? This was years ago. I’m not a lawyer, but I’ll risk that the statue of limitations is over. Statute.
I was the last one out of the bar. Back then, I’d stay till they had to sweep me out. So I was stumbling down the street, making my way home, minding my own business. At a break in the sidewalk I heard a rustle in the alleyway. I’m still not sure why I didn’t bolt. Late night? A woman alone? A darkened alleyway? A recipe for disaster. I didn’t care. Dutch courage.
Shadows moved behind a dumpster. The romantic in me believed a couple was preparing to physically express their love.
They weren’t. A woman tried to scream “Help,” but she choked on that syllable and it dissolved into sick gagging. There are six billion people on the planet and she was appealing for just one to step in and save her skin. I now have some idea what she was going through. Yesterday, I was never more alone on this overpopulated planet.
Well, my first instinct was to get myself far away from there, telling myself I’d call the cops as soon as I was safe. She made another repellent noise, something between a scream and an upchuck.
It was the dead of night. No one around. Not one person I could pass the buck to. The streets were apathetic. It was like the whole world couldn’t have cared less what happened to this woman. Wait. No, that’s not it at all. Actually it was kind of the opposite. It was like the world was watching me, impatiently waiting for me to stop gawking and make an effort.
So I didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what I told myself when I started kicking the shit out of this him.
Cut to years later. In my living room. Alone. The world is watching, waiting for action. Someone needs my help. No one else can do the job. It’s almost the same thing, I thought.
I picked up the phone and told the dial tone, “I’ll do it. Happy?”
