by Edwin Dasso
If desire is passion and passion is irrational and irrationality is the enemy of virtue—ah, hell.
I went almost a week without talking to Violet. In part, I was ashamed of myself, but mostly I was worried that she would interpret our sexual encounter as a sign that I wanted to start up the work spouse thing again. I thought avoiding her would be an indication that I didn’t. And maybe I was afraid of a confrontation. Okay, I definitely was afraid of a confrontation. Avoiding her only made it worse, though. By the time I finally did talk to her she was ready to pop. She cornered me in the break room as I was refreshing my morning coffee. The coffee pot in the art department was empty.
“So Hercule, what the hell? You’ve stopped speaking to me?”
“No. I mean—how are you?”
“Unhappy. How are you?”
“Busy. You know, deadlines. I’m sorry I haven’t—
“Save it. I get it. I fucking get it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that.”
I glanced at a couple of people standing by the vending machines. “Can we discuss this at lunch or something?”
“There’s nothing to discuss. You’ve got your bitch wife, and I’ve got Brett. Everything’s fine. Good old Brett, the Bro King. Hah! Bro King. Broking. Broken.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a long low sigh. “That’s it, isn’t it, Hercule? Everything’s broken.”
Before I could answer she turned on her heel and walked back to her office, her spine erect, her head held high.
19
Hades
The howl is coming from behind me, back by the hole to the other room. It’s Jax, sounding like a wounded animal. I take one of the flashlights and my tire iron and head back over there. His head and one arm are protruding from the entrance to the hole. He's waving the arm wildly and twisting his shoulders back and forth. Finally, he stops to rest. Stuck. Face down in the dust. I sit cross-legged in front of him, out of reach of that giant hand. I'm feeling pretty good about our respective positions right now.
"Howdy, Jax," I say.
He screams, "You smart ass. You little shit. I'll break your fucking neck when I get out of here. I'll rip your fucking head off."
I smile and waggle my tire iron at him. "Now, now. Be nice. Are you stuck in there?"
He howls again and thrashes around some more. When he stops he looks exhausted. "Yes, I'm fucking stuck. Your tunnel collapsed on my legs. Come on, dig me out."
"So you can punch me again? No thanks. Maybe if you'd calm down a little—"
He rests his forehead on the ground and sighs. When he looks up again, he's smiling. I'm sure he means it to be a reassuring smile, but it's frightening.
"I'm sorry, Herk. It's Herk, right? I promise I won't hurt you. I was just upset. You can understand that, can't you?" He attempts a light-hearted chuckle. "I mean, look at me. I'm stuck in a hole. Give me a hand?"
He sounds like a teenager trying to explain to his father why he got drunk and wrecked the family car.
“Seriously, man? You broke my nose. You tried to rape Sandra. I don’t trust you.”
“I’m sorry about your nose,” he says. “But wanting to screw Miss Bitch? You can’t blame me for that. You want to screw her, too. You probably already have. Hell. When it comes to chicks, you and I are exactly alike.”
“I am not like you!” I get up and pace back and forth in front of him, shaking the tire iron in his face. “That’s a fucking lie. I’m nothing like you!”
“All right. All right. You’re nothing like me. Calm down and dig me out of here.” He puts his head down again. “Please?”
The alternative to digging him out is leaving him there, which is what I’d like to do. Then I’d know right where he is. But if he starts thrashing around again, he’ll dislodge the concrete holding up the car door, and the whole thing will collapse, suffocating him. I don't see that I have a choice. I have to dig him out and hope he can control his temper.
"All right, Jax. Let me see if I can clear the stuff pinning your other arm, first."
I set my tire iron down out of his reach and move closer to the hole, being careful to avoid his free arm. The debris is piled up precariously, like that game where you try to remove blocks of wood without collapsing the stack. If I pull out the wrong piece of concrete, the whole thing will come down and bury him. I decide to work from the top. I turn on the nearest car's headlights, grab the passenger side floor mat, take it back to Jax and lay it over his head.
"Here. This'll keep dust and stones off you while I dig."
There's plenty of dust, and I stop every few minutes to shake off Jax's mat. Somehow, it’s worse than digging the tunnel. I clear the debris in layers, starting from about five feet off the floor, and working my way down. I pull enough off the pile to clear Jax's head, then move back to the top and start again. I'm about halfway through this second pass when Sandra shows up. Jax still has the floor mat over his head, so she doesn't see him right away. She's holding her tire iron and something else.
"Look what I found!" She holds up a phone. She's so excited it takes her a moment to see what I'm doing. She looks at the partially excavated pile, then down at Jax's arm, still holding the floor mat in place. "What are you doing?"
"Jax tried crawling through the tunnel and got stuck. I'm digging him out."
Jax pulls the mat off his head and smiles up at her. Sandra screams and raises the tire iron over her head. Before she can bash his brains in, I grab her arm and twist the bar out of her hand. She tries to bite my hand, and when I yank it out of the way, she kicks me in the shin.
"What the hell is wrong with you? The guy's a maniac,” she shouts. “If you let him into this room, he'll kill us both."
"And if I leave him here, the tunnel will cave in and kill him. I'm not a murderer."
"You're an idiot. I'm telling you, you can't trust him. Do not trust him."
Jax tries his smile out again and says, "Come on, baby. I won't hurt you. You know I love you."
Sandra shudders with revulsion. She gets up and retrieves her tire iron. "You come anywhere near me, Jax, and I'll splatter your brains across the floor." Then she walks back toward the far end of the garage.
The car headlights cast eerie shadows, adding to my anxiety about letting Jax loose. I get the debris cleared past his shoulders, and he twists back and forth until he works the trapped arm free and turns onto his stomach. Then he plants his palms on the floor and starts to push. It looks like he's trying to do a push-up with the entire building on his back. Dust is pouring down the stack and running off his shoulders in streams. The pile shifts slightly, and I'm afraid the whole thing’s going to cave in on him.
"Hold up, Jax. Let me clear some of the big pieces away, first."
He shakes his head and continues to push. His face is dark red, and the muscles in his neck bulge like steel cables. He lowers his head and howls again. Then he arches his back and heaves. Concrete rains down around him, but he continues to push, working to bend one leg and get it under him. He's still howling when the whole thing collapses. The sound of the falling concrete drowns out his voice, and a cloud of dust mushrooms out from the doorway. I step back a few feet and throw my arm across my eyes. When I lower it, Jax is standing, knee deep in debris, with his head thrown back and his arms spread wide.
20
Violet
I walked through the sales office on my way in this morning. Violet’s desk was empty. Folders, pens, pictures, coffee mug, everything was gone. I asked the salesman at the desk across from hers what had happened. He said, “She just split, man. Didn’t say anything. Just tossed all her shit in a cardboard box and walked out.”
When I got to my desk there was a note taped to my computer monitor. It was unsigned, but I recognized her handwriting. The note was short and to the point.
Fuck you, Hercule. Fuck. You.
21
Hades
Sandra and I are working our way up and down the room. She has t
he cell phone, looking for a signal, and I’m breaking into cars, collecting supplies. We're working opposite sides of the room. Jax is sitting back by the hole, exhausted. Sandra’s mumbling as she moves along the wall on the other side of the room, talking to her phone, begging it to find a signal.
I reach the far wall and start to move toward the center of the room, expecting to meet Sandra coming from the other direction, but when I look across the rows of cars I see the glow from her phone still halfway down the room. She's crying and laughing and shouting something in Greek. Then she drops the phone on the ground and shouts, "Gamimeni kolasi."
"What's up?” I yell. “Did you get a signal?"
"I did! It was weak, but I got out. I called my father on his private line, and he picked up. I told him what happened, but the damn phone died before he could answer."
"So, you're not sure he knows where we are?"
"No, but he knows it was me. He knows I'm alive and need help. He'll look for me."
I don't know how long it's been since we crawled in from the other room. Sandra is pumped from getting through to her dad, but I'm exhausted. I slide into the back seat of a Prius, brush the fragments of broken window glass onto the floor, and lay down to take a nap. As I fade out I hear Sandra talking to herself. I can’t tell what she's saying, but she sounds happy.
I'm not sure if the scream is real or part of a dream, and I struggle to crank my eyes open. Then she screams again, and I'm wide-awake. I grab my flashlight and tire iron and jump out of the car. The screaming is coming from the other end of the room, back by the collapsed tunnel. I start to run toward the noise and immediately turn my ankle on a piece of concrete. The ankle hurts, but I can put my weight on it. I move quickly, but more cautiously.
Jax's legs are sticking out of the back door of a big Cadillac. I shine my light in the window, and there’s Sandra, backed up against the far door, her legs pulled up to her chest. Jax has her feet and is trying to pull her toward him.
"Get the fuck off her!" I shout and bang on the car’s roof. I whack the back of his leg with the tire iron. He doesn't respond. I hobble around to the other side of the car and pull on the door handle. It's locked. Sandra’s screaming at the top of her lungs. She's wrenched one foot free and is kicking Jax in the face. I smash the front window, reach in, and unlock the doors. Then I yank the back door open, grab Sandra under the arms, and drag her out of the car. One of her shoes is missing, and she winces as she steps on broken glass.
Jax backs out of the other door and comes around the front of the car. I put Sandra behind me and hold the tire iron up for him to see.
"Back off, motherfucker!" I try to sound menacing, but it comes out in a squeak, like a mouse trying to intimidate a lion. He shakes his head to clear his vision. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Glock.
“Y’know, buddy,” he says, “I’ve had just about enough of you.”
“The gun’s empty, Jax. I got rid of the bullets. Let’s just settle down, okay? Talk this out.”
“If the gun’s empty, you won’t mind if I do this.”
He points the gun at my chest and pulls the trigger. Despite knowing the gun won’t fire, I flinch.
Jax tosses the gun away and rushes me. I swing, getting in one solid blow to his forehead. It starts to bleed, but it doesn't slow him down. He brushes aside my second swing and hits me. It's an open-handed slap, but it sends me staggering. The tire iron flies out of my hand. I trip over something and fall. Jax is on top of me before I can get up. He wraps his giant hands clear around my neck and slams my head onto the concrete floor. I punch him in the face and try to shout, but his thumbs close off my windpipe. He leans down to look me in the eyes, and through my blurred vision I see him smile. I hit him again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I can't breath. There’s a roaring in my ears. I can just make out Sandra, blurry, standing behind him, holding the tire iron. Then all I can see is Jax’s giant gleeful smirk. Then I can't see anything.
22
Dana
I open my eyes to see an attractive, dark-haired woman dressed in a pastel smock covered with pink and blue hearts. I try to tell her I'm thirsty, but my voice won't work. My throat hurts. There's a tube in my arm. The woman looks at the machine the tube is attached to. When she walks past my line of sight, I turn my head to follow her. My head hurts. I pick up my hand to motion to her. My hand looks small and far away. There's a bad smell here. It smells like someone pooped in a swimming pool. I can't keep my eyes open.
People are talking. I'm trying to sleep, and they just keep talking.
Get the hell out of my bedroom, people.
I try to roll over, but something's holding my arm. My head still hurts. I open my eyes and sit up. The room is filled with people. The first person I see is Dana, and I start crying. I turn my head so she won’t see and say, "I'm sorry." I don't recognize my voice. It's a guttural croak.
Dana smiles at me. She says, "Welcome back." She's sitting in a chair at the end of my bed. It's a hospital bed. My parents are standing behind Dana's chair.
My mother says, "Oh, thank God."
I wipe my eyes on the edge of the sheet. My father comes around the other side of the bed and sidles past the machines and tubes. He bends down and kisses my forehead. I look at his usually stoic face, and it looks like he's going to cry, too. He starts to say something, but stops, rubs his eyes, and backs out past the machines to let my mother get closer. She doesn't say anything, either. She just wraps her arms around me and holds her cheek against mine. Then she lifts her head and crinkles up her nose. "Whew. Honey, you stink."
The woman in the pastel smock comes back. The dry erase board next to my bed says Nurse Hebe. I say, "Hi, Nurse Hebe." She tells me they x-rayed my head this morning, and tomorrow they want to send me for an MRI. She says I have a concussion, and they want to check my brain for bleeding. I try to make a joke about checking to see if my brain is still in my head, but I can't come up with the words. There's an awkward silence. Nurse Hebe fiddles with the machines again. Then she puts her hand on my forehead. Her palm is soft and cool. I’m sorry when she takes it away.
Everyone has gone except Dana. It's late. She's still sitting next to my bed. My eyelids are heavy, but I don't want to sleep. I’m afraid Dana will leave if I fall asleep.
“I saw you being rescued on the news,” she says. “What were you doing at Trachis Tower? That was Dr. Weiss' building.”
“I had an appointment with her,” I croak. It hurts my throat to talk.
“Why?”
Her voice is calm. She doesn’t sound angry. I expect her to be angry.
“You stopped talking to me. I thought maybe Dr. Weiss could convince you to come back to counseling. Maybe help us find a solution. One that isn’t divorce?”
“That woman from the garage came by while you were sleeping,” she says, ignoring my question.
"What woman?"
"The one who was trapped with you. She left something.”
Dana hands me an envelope. I try to open it, but my hands are shaky, and I can’t get a good grip on it. I ask her to read it to me. She opens it and reads:
Hercule,
Thanks for helping me stay sane in that fucking hell. And thanks for getting that pig off me. Hey, guess what? I saved your life, so we’re even. I’m going to take your advice and enroll in night classes. Maybe I’ll get my teaching credentials. Money isn’t everything, right? I hope your wife takes you back. Here’s some helpful advice for you—stop being a dick.
Good luck,
Sandra
Dana doesn't say anything, so I break the silence.
"I'm sorry, Dana. Sorry about everything. You know what the worst part of being trapped under that building was?"
"What?"
"That I might never see you again. We can work things out. I know we can. Will you go back to Dr. Weiss with me?"
“I’m really glad you’re going to be okay,” she says.
She stands up, lays Sandra’
s note on my bed, and turns to go.
Nurse Hebe comes in to check on me as Dana leaves. I smooth down my hair with my free hand and smile.
“Nurse Hebe, I say. “How nice to see you again.”
About the Author
Tim Chapman is a former forensic scientist for the Chicago police department who currently teaches writing and tai chi chuan. His fiction has been published in The Southeast Review, the Chicago Reader, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Palooka, and the anthology, The Rich and the Dead. His first novel, Bright and Yellow, Hard and Cold, (re-released as A Trace of Gold) was a finalist in Shelf Unbound’s 2013 Best Indie Book competition. His short stories have been collected under the title, Kiddieland and other misfortunes. His latest novel is The Blue Silence. In his spare time he paints pretty pictures and makes an annoying noise with his saxophone that he claims is music.
Find & Follow Tim Chapman
Also by Tim Chapman
The Blue Silence: Murder New Orleans Style
A Trace of Gold: Murder Chicago Style
Kiddieland and other misfortunes
Mystery Writers of America Presents The Rich and the Dead
Learn More
www.realtimchapman.com
Headstone
The Curse
Book 15 - The Cornelius Saga Series
By
Tanya R. Taylor
Contents
