Coldwater

by Tom Pitts

  “Mrs. Carson, come in. Calper, nice to see you.” He looked past them at Taber and the gun in his hand. “Taber!” he admonished. “Put that thing away, there’s no need for it. What’re you thinking?” He waved all three in to a high and opulent space, airy and bright with shafts of sunlight ribboning in through stained glass. “I can’t believe you brought them here at gunpoint. What in God’s name is Mrs. Carson to think of us?”

  He was selling it hard, smiling at them with stained yellow teeth, but Linda wasn’t buying. She kept looking past him, checking for another weapon, one he might use or one she might commandeer. Anything, a fireplace poker, a kitchen knife.

  “Dad,” a voice called from deeper in the house. Stephan winced upon hearing the word. It came again, this time with a cracking urgency. “Dad.”

  Linda knew immediately whose voice it was. She twisted her head to see past Stephan’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of a sofa acting as a makeshift bed. Linens were thrown over the piece of furniture, pill bottles and glasses and plates stacked on the table in front of it. She crooked her head to look at Stephan. Incredulity sharpened in her eyes.

  With an attempt at a pleasant tone, Stephan sang out, “Just a minute.” He shot a glance at Taber, but Taber, who apparently was the one regularly attending to the patient, couldn’t move. He stood vigil, keeping his gun ready and his eyes trained on the two guests. Stephan sucked an annoyed breath in through his nostrils and to Linda he said, “Yes, he’s here.”

  She wondered if Calper already knew Jason was being treated at the house. A rush of doubt filled her as quick as adrenaline. Doubt and fear shadowed her face as Stephan DeWildt became even more conciliatory than before.

  “Please, come in. I’m sorry. Taber, I mean it, put that thing away. These two are our guests. Let me seat you in a room that isn’t so…cluttered. Let’s sit in the kitchen. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Calper said, “Actually, it’s been a hell of a day. What’re you having, Steph?”

  The colloquial abbreviation rankled DeWildt, but he brushed it off. “I was thinking wine, but I know you’re a scotch man. We’ve got a few different ones, some aged stuff that’ll knock your socks off. Have a seat, have a seat.” He waved his arm toward the kitchen and waited for them to step ahead. “Let’s sit down and see if we can hash this thing out.”

  “What thing?” Linda said.

  Stephan waited for them to sit down at the large oval table before saying, “This thing, Taber and the pistol. There’s a misunderstanding, of course. He’s overzealous, obviously, but his heart, however misguided, was in the right place. It’s been a real hell since all this came down, dealing with Jason, the police, the lawyers. I’m sure you understand. I feel like a target sometimes.”

  Jason’s voice cried out from the living room once again, this time more muffled, less urgent, as though whatever need he had moments before was being let out of him like air from a tire.

  “He’ll be fine. He’ll be back asleep in a few moments. Where were we? Scotch? Mrs. Carson? Wine, scotch, soda?”

  Linda shook her head.

  “Water then. Have something, please. We’re going to be here a few minutes.”

  His first few emissions were grunts, moans really. Blurry low-frequency noises the doctor said didn’t mean anything. They flashed a penlight in his eyes, monitored the machines, poked him and pinched him to test his reflexes.

  “He’s coming out of it all right, but there’s no way to check his brain functions. Not yet.”

  The doctor said all this very close to Gary’s face, and warm breath with notes of some spicy lunch drifted over his cheek. He felt that but could not say so. He couldn’t identify the spice and he couldn’t think what to call the sensation. He felt the pinching and poking too, but it didn’t hurt. It was a vague awareness, like it was happening to someone else, someone else’s skin. But it wasn’t. How could that be? It took all his strength and focus to open his eyes and when he did, all he saw was light. He wondered, was he dead? He wondered where he was and what kind of place this was. He wanted to move, to rise, but all he could do was close his eyes again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Linda hadn’t touched her water, but Calper was already asking for a refill on his scotch. She squeezed the glass in front of her, trying hard to figure out what was happening. Was Calper placating Stephan DeWildt, or was he firmly in their camp? Or was he just too clueless to comprehend the danger they were in?

  DeWildt paced around the kitchen table, animated and voluble, sloshing the red wine in his glass as he gesticulated. Linda tried to focus on what he was saying, but it was clipped and obtuse and, as far as she was concerned, mostly bullshit anyway. He was a loud car salesman, a bad game show host. He was duplicitous and deceitful, she felt this, knew it to her very core. She eyed him as his words weaved into nonsense.

  Taber stood back at the doorjamb. He was silent and brooding, arms folded, head down. Then Linda noticed Taber was gone. Her already heightened sense of fear torqued up another notch.

  “What I’m saying is a tragedy, a sorrowful mess like this, doesn’t need to beget more tragedy. It’s a situation we’re all in, I’m afraid, and I—being in the position I am—can do something to fix it, to help put it behind us. I’m working right now with the authorities and some very good attorneys to—”

  “My husband is in a coma.” Linda cool and even, the water glass still clasped between her hands. “There’s no putting anything behind us. He’s in a coma and he may never come out. You’ve destroyed our lives.”

  Stephan stopped pacing and put his hand on his hip, regarding Linda as though she were an associate pitching an idea at a board meeting. He crooked his eyebrows up and, after a patronizing nod of the chin, said, “I understand. The position you’ve been left in is horrific, and you’re looking for someone to blame, I get it. But it wasn’t me that put you in this spot. I’m the one trying my best to get you out. I’m willing to point whatever resources I can at resolving whatever needs you may have. But understand—”

  Stephan was interrupted once more, this time by Taber, who’d returned to the kitchen entrance. He’d slipped out to Calper’s car during Stephan’s soliloquy and now held Linda and Calper’s cell phones in his hand. He motioned with his head to speak with Stephan privately. DeWildt waved him over. Taber approached and set the phones on the counter behind him.

  Taber reached up, almost on his tiptoes, and spoke conspiratorially to Stephan, covering his mouth with his hand. Stephan kept a smile on his face, a pleasant mask, but as Taber spoke, the mask tightened. His eyes hardened and watered. When Taber was done, Stephan placed his palms down on the table and said, “Well, Mrs. Carson, it seems someone at San Francisco General Hospital has been trying to reach you.”

  Linda’s stomach clenched. What could it be, good news? The worst news? Pangs of guilt rocked her. She should be there, not here chasing some half-assed revenge, some poorly thought-out plan to redeem her husband by righting someone else’s wrongs. She strained to see the phone on the counter like it would tell her something from where it lay.

  He smiled at her, knowing the anguish this was causing. He reveled in it. Watching her twist and tighten in her seat. But watching wasn’t enough, he had to add, “How is he? You think this is good news? I hope so. He’s been on all our minds lately.” Stephan didn’t move, though. He didn’t turn and hand her the phone; he stood statue still and kept smiling. He let the thought of helpless Gary in his hospital bed seep in.

  Linda finally said, “Can I have my phone?” She knew the answer would be no. Even amid all the feigned politeness, they were still hostages.

  Stephan ignored her and turned his gaze to Calper. His smile evened out now, pulling back across his teeth, making his thin lips nearly disappear. “And Mr. Dennings, I understand you’ve been in contact with the police.”

  Calper set down his empty glass. “Excuse me?”

>   “The police, Calper. Specifically the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department. That’s a long way from home. I can only imagine there’s just one thing you might be speaking with them about.”

  “Jesus, we’ve all been talking to ’em. Haven’t they been calling you? They’ve been on my ass since day one about this mess. So what?”

  “So what? What is we have to present a unified front.” Stephan’s voice rose a little, barely concealing his anger. “We need to be on the same page here. You’re still employed by me, whether they know it or not. I need to know what’s going on with you and the people who seek to destroy us.”

  “They’re the police, Stephan. They’re trying to solve—no, let me correct that, trying to prove—a very serious crime. They already know—”

  “What’s going on?”

  The interruption startled them all. Leaning on the fridge by the passageway leading to the living room was Jason DeWildt. He was unshaven and bloated, shirtless and wearing hospital patient pants. His chest was crisscrossed with gauze bandages that stuck to him with puss and blood, and he rubbed his dick through the thin material of his pants. What at first seemed like only a scratch turned sexual when he eyed Linda and said, “I know you.”

  “Jason,” Stephan DeWildt said. “Go back to the other room, this doesn’t concern you. Take your medication, you look terrible.”

  Jason raised his eyebrows but didn’t break his gaze. He continued to stare at Linda, his eyes glassy and empty.

  Linda took it all in, the gesture, the arrogant taunt, and said, “Fuck you.” Nice and slowly, so the words were heavy, bold. She’d come to Los Angeles to confront Calper, a pawn, and in doing so was brought face to face with DeWildt, a man she’d come to recognize as the devil. She wasn’t going to let one of his demons intimidate her. Jason held his posture, hand still working at his crotch.

  “Jason,” Stephan said again, hissing this time. “Get back on the damn couch. I’ll call you if we need you.”

  Jason finally turned and sauntered back to the living room, his stocking feet sliding along the hardwood floor.

  “Let’s adjourn downstairs, in the screening room. That way we won’t have any more interruptions.” Stephan waited for his guests to rise, but they sat, motionless, trying to communicate without words. “Please. You’ll have plenty of time to talk downstairs. Jason doesn’t need to hear all this.”

  Reluctantly, the two got up, scraping their chairs backward. They followed Stephan down a short hallway to a carpeted staircase leading down one level. Taber was right behind them, obediently following, gun in hand. Calper measured distances between Taber and DeWildt, calculating odds.

  They arrived in the room and Calper was surprised by its opulence. He’d been in many screening rooms in the homes of Hollywood’s upper crust over the years, and they were all luxurious, but this one was much larger, designed to replicate a small theater, complete with six rows of plush red cushioned theater seats broken into two sections, separated with a carpeted aisle. Calper couldn’t imagine DeWildt being a man with enough friends to fill it. Banks of lights above their heads were dimmed so pale yellow cones of light spilled into the room.

  There was a small ledge in front of the recessed screen. DeWildt leaned against it and crossed his legs at his ankles. “You two, please, sit down here in the front.” He pointed to the seats directly in front of him. “Best seats in the house.”

  Before sitting, Calper turned to mark Taber’s position near the double doors they’d passed through to get in. He was there, standing sentinel, the .38 hanging from his right hand, an odd, eager look painted on his face. “You’re not really a lawyer anymore, are you, Taber?”

  Taber didn’t respond, his smirk intensified, and he looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t compile the words. Instead he waggled the gun a little in his right hand, as if he needed to remind Calper it still existed.

  “Please, sit down, Mr. Dennings,” Stephan said.

  Calper flopped down into the aisle seat, the one beside Linda, brought his right ankle over his left knee and folded his arms across his chest. “So are we gonna be here awhile or what? We gonna watch a movie? What’s the plan? If you have one, that is.” He looked up at the soundproof tiles quilting the ceiling. He knew it was a mistake to come in here. It wasn’t going to end well. They were truly trapped now, cut off from the world of sound and light, deep in this well-decorated dungeon. He felt the healing wound under his shirt and wondered if he was getting too old for this shit.

  Stephan waved Taber down the aisle and Taber obliged, trotting down the few steps. Stephan leaned into Taber and whispered, “Take Calper’s car back to his place. Wipe it down. Get your own car and get back here as soon as possible.” As Taber turned to walk away, Stephan added, “Oh, and leave me the gun, would you?”

  Taber handed him the weapon and Stephan set it on the ledge to his right. Disarming Taber was supposed to ease Linda and Calper’s worries at least a little, but the gun still sat there as a threat, a warning.

  When the heavy doors had closed, Stephan said, “Ashton is going to take a few minutes to check out Mr. Dennings’ story, and then we can finish up here.”

  Calper reached over the cushioned arm and squeezed Linda’s hand.

  Linda said, “Finish up?”

  Stephan started to answer, but Calper interrupted. “How long’s this going to take? I’ve got people waiting for me back home. And what the fuck is the gun for? I thought we were all supposed to be on the same page or team or whatever the fuck it was you said.”

  “No one is waiting for you, Calper.” Stephan righted himself from the ledge and stood before them. “Look, whatever you may think of me—”

  Calper watched him step away from where the gun sat and saw his chance. He sprung from the seat and lunged at DeWildt, going straight for his throat with both hands. DeWildt was big and had a good reach on Calper and began to batter him in the temples with his fists, but Calper hung on, squeezing, watching the old man’s face turn from red to purple.

  The second Calper went for Stephan, Linda went for the gun, snatching it from its perch directly in front of her. She pointed it at the two men, not knowing if there was a safety or if it was even loaded.

  Calper had forced DeWildt back against the railing, the older man’s back bending over the ledge toward the screen. Calper’s hands were still at his throat and he worked his knee into Stephan’s crotch, rocketing it up again and again. Stephan tried to keep upright, still hitting Calper in the sides of his head, powerful blows in a steady rhythm. Left, right, left, right.

  “Stop it! Freeze!” Linda shouted, unsure if they could even hear her voice in the melee. The two men scuffled and stumbled, making it near impossible to get a clear shot. And if she was to get a clear shot, could she take it? Her resolve to pull the trigger weakened with every second that slipped by. She watched the brawl helplessly as the weight of the .38 tugged lower and lower. Stephan switched positions, lowering his blows to Calper’s abdomen, then caught him with a solid head-butt square in the nose. Calper’s grip on Stephan’s neck slackened, and he stumbled back. Stephan kept swinging, uppercuts to the sternum and side blows to the skull, his speed and accuracy sharpening as he sucked in his first breath.

  Finally Calper folded. As he fell back he took one last roundhouse swing that whooshed past Stephan’s chin, missing it by inches. Calper crashed backward into the row of uprighted seats, his body wedging between the cushion and the floor. Before he’d even reached the ground, Stephan turned on Linda, ignoring the gun and her threats, and punched her hard, cracking the bridge of her nose. Linda’s head snapped back and she squeezed the trigger of the gun. The blast sounded strange in the soundproof room, flat, dead, but still booming with sonic power, a thunderous crack with no reverberation. He came at her again, realizing the bullet had gone astray, plugging into the thick wall somewhere behind him. His right connected again, sending her r
eeling back. She teetered there, seeing spots in front of her eyes. Stephan stepped forward and shoved her, sending her sliding across the carpet on her back.

  She sat up and raised the gun at his chest and he kicked it hard, sending it spinning on the carpet. When she tried to lunge up at him, he kicked her in the forehead with the heel of his shoe, exhaling satisfaction and triumph as he bent down and reached for the errant pistol.

  Stephan turned just in time to see Calper up off the ground and coming at him. When Calper saw the barrel pointed at his face, he held up his palms in supplication and fell back to a sitting position on the carpet, against the empty seats.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jason didn’t see his mother again till her funeral. He didn’t really see her that day, only her coffin. It was white and looked like a big long pearl, polished and expensive. It was adorned with heavy-looking gold hardware and topped with blood red roses. It sat on a curtained pedestal in the middle of the room and it was easy for Jason to imagine his mother in there, quiet, sleeping, not wanting to be disturbed.

  She died in the bathtub, falling peacefully asleep and slipping under the soapy cold water. She finally succeeded at what she intended that day at Zuma Beach, washing herself free of the man who destroyed her life. There were no heirlooms or keepsakes for Jason. The only thing she left for him was the memory of the cold water and how it could wash anything away.

  As he sat listening to the parade of mourners extol his mother’s virtues, Jason’s thoughts were not with his mother, but with his father. It was easy to see now. It was his father’s fault. It was his father that made her sick, made her go into a hospital. He yelled at her, beat her, crushed her spirit. It was his father that made her take the pills. It was his father that poisoned her. He killed her. Jason could see that now. And he hated his father with an intensity he’d never known before.