by Blake Crouch
“Once, Tim. One fucking time. And it was a total accident. He didn’t mean to shove her as hard as he did.” Laura turning the deadbolt now. “And it tore him up that he did it. You weren’t here when it happened. Didn’t see him crying like a goddamn two-year-old, sitting in his own vomit, did you?” Tim could hear the hinges creaking. “No,” Martin answered his own question as the front door swung open, cold streaming in. “You were in college.” Laura slipped outside, eased the door closed behind her. “Becoming a teacher.” Any curiosity Tim had harbored concerning his brother’s opinion of his chosen profession instantly wilted.
“You’re right,” Tim said. “Sorry. I just…part of me’s still so pissed at him, you know?”
Martin lifted the bottle, took a long drink, wiped his mouth.
“Of course I know.”
Tim pulled Old Grandad across the table, wondering how long it would take Laura. If the cruiser was locked, there’d be nothing she could do but come right back inside. If it was open, might take her a minute or two of searching the front seats to find the phone, another thirty seconds to figure out how to work Martin’s cell, check his call history.
He sipped the whiskey, pushed the bottle back to Martin.
“Wish you’d come over more,” Tim said. “Feel like I don’t see you much these days.”
“See me every Sunday at Mom’s.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Tim wanted to ask Martin if he felt that wedge between them, met his brother’s eyes across the table, but couldn’t bring himself to say the words. They didn’t operate on that frequency.
A frigid mist fogged Laura’s glasses, and with the porchlight out, she took her time descending the steps, the soles of her slippers holding a tenuous grip on the wet brick. The fog had thickened since Martin’s arrival, the streetlamps putting out a glow far dimmer and more diffused than their normal sharp points of illumination—now just smudges of light in the distance.
She hurried down the sidewalk that curved from the house to the driveway.
Martin had parked his police cruiser behind the old Honda Civic she’d had since her junior year of high school, over 200,000 miles on the odometer and not a glimmer of senility.
Laura walked around to the front door on the passenger side, out of the sight-line of the living room windows. She reached to open the front passenger door, wondering if Martin’s cruiser carried an alarm. If so, she was about to wake up everyone on the block, and had better prepare herself to explain to her brother-in-law why she’d tried to break into his car.
The door opened. Interior lights blazing. No screeching alarm. The front seat filthy—Chick-Fil-A wrappers and crushed Cheerwine cans in the floorboards.
She leaned over the computer in the central console, inspected the driver seat.
No phone.
Two minutes of leafing through the myriad papers and napkins and straws and stray salt packets in the glove compartment convinced her it wasn’t there either.
She glanced back through the partition that separated the front seats from the back.
In the middle seat, on top of a Penthouse magazine, lay Martin’s black leather cell phone case.
“Yeah, I was seeing this woman for a little while.”
“But not anymore?”
Martin took another long pull from Old Grandad, shook his head.
“What happened?”
“She wanted to domesticate me, as they say.”
Tim forced a smile. “How so?”
“Tried to drag me to church and Sunday school. Anytime we’d be out and I’d order an alcoholic beverage—her term—she’d make this real restrained sigh, like her Southern Baptist sensibility had been scandalized. And in bed…”
Laura opened the door behind the front passenger seat and climbed into the back of the cruiser. Wary of the interior lights exposing her, on the chance Martin happened to glance outside, she pulled the door closed.
After a moment, the lights cut out.
She picked up the leather case, fished out Martin’s cell phone, and flipped it open, the little screen glowing in the dark.
“…I’d gotten my hopes up, figured she’s so uptight about every other fucking thing, girl must be a psychopath between the sheets. Like it has to balance out somewhere, right?”
As he sipped the whiskey, Tim glanced around Martin toward the front door.
“Sadly, not the case. When we finally did the deed, she just laid there, absolutely motionless, making these weird little noises. She was terrified of sex. I think she approached it like scooping up dogshit. Damn, this whiskey’s running through me.”
Martin got up from the table and left the kitchen, Tim listening to his brother’s footsteps track down the hallway.
The bathroom door opened and closed.
It grew suddenly quiet.
The clock above the kitchen sink showed 11:35.
Laura stared at the cell phone screen and exhaled a long sigh. Martin’s last call had gone out at 4:21 p.m. to Mary West, his and Tim’s mother.
She closed the cell, slipped it back into the leather case, sat there for a moment in the dark car. She realized she’d somehow known all along, and she wondered how she’d let Tim know—maybe a shake of the head as she crept past the kitchen on her way up the stairs. Better not to advertise to Martin that they’d suspected him.
She searched for the door handle in the dark, and kept searching and kept searching. At least on this side, there didn’t seem to be one. She moved to the other door, slid her hand across the vinyl. Nothing. Reaching forward, she touched the partition of vinyl-coated metal that separated the front and back seats, thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me.
Ten minutes later, flushed with embarrassment, Laura broke down and dialed her home number on Martin’s cell. Even from inside the car, she could hear their telephone ringing through the living room windows. If she could get Tim to come outside unnoticed and let her out, Martin would never have to know about any of this.
The answering machine picked up, her voice advising, “Tim and Laura aren’t here right now. You know the drill.”
She closed Martin’s cell, opened it, hit redial—five rings, then the machine again.
The moment she put the phone away, Martin’s cell vibrated.
Laura opened the case, opened the phone—her landline calling, figured Tim had star-sixty-nined her last call.
Through the drawn shades of the living room windows, she saw his profile, pressed talk.
“Tim?”
“Thank God, Laura.” Marty’s voice. “Someone’s in the house.”
“What are you talking about? Where’s Tim?”
“He ran out through the backyard. Where are you?”
“I um…I’m outside. Went for a late walk.”
“You on your cell?”
“Yeah. I don’t understand what’s—”
“I’m coming out. Meet me at the roundabout and we’ll—”
Martin’s cell beeped three times and died.
The whiskey had made Tim thirsty, and Martin was taking his sweet time in the bathroom.
Tim went over to the sink, held a glass of water under the filter attached to the faucet.
He heard the creak of wood pressure—Marty walking back into the kitchen—and still watching the water level rise, Tim said, “Let me ask you something, Marty. You think whoever left that message knows they left it?”
“Yeah, Tim, I think they might.”
Something in Martin’s voice spun Tim around, and his first inclination was to laugh, because his brother did look ridiculous, standing just a few feet away in a pair of white socks, a shower cap hiding his short black hair, and the inexplicable choice to don the yellow satin teddy Laura had been wearing prior to his arrival.
“What the hell is this?” Tim asked, then noticed tears trailing down Martin’s face.
“She’d gone to the movies with Tyler Hodges.”
“Who are you talking—”
<
br /> “Danielle.”
“Matson?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s a junior in high school, man.”
“You know what she did with Tyler after the movie?”
“Marty—”
“She went to the Grove with him and they parked and the windows were steamed up when I found them.”
“Look, you can have the tape from our answering—”
“They’d trace the call,” Martin said. “If you were to encourage them.”
“We wouldn’t.”
“I can see the wheels turning in your eyes, but I’ve thought this through quite a bit more than you have. Played out all the scenarios, and this is—”
“Please, Marty. I could never turn you in.”
Martin seemed to really consider this. He said, “Where’s Laura?”
“Upstairs.”
Martin cocked his head and shifted into his right hand the paring knife he’d liberated from the cutlery block.
“Don’t fuck with me. I was just up there.”
“You need help, Marty.”
“You think so?”
“Remember that vacation we took to Myrtle Beach? I was twelve, you were fourteen. We rode the Mad Mouse roller coaster eight times in a row.”
“That was a great summer.”
“I’m your brother, man. Little Timmy. Look at yourself. Let me help you.”
As he spoke, Tim noticed that Martin had gone so far as to put on black glove liners, and there was something so clinical and deliberate in the act, that for the first time, he actually felt afraid, a sharp plunging coldness streaking through his core, and he grew breathless as the long-overdue shot of adrenaline swept through him, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was just standing there, leaning back against the counter, watching Marty shove the curved paring knife in and out of his abdomen—four, five, six times—and he heard the water glass he’d been holding shatter on the hardwood floor beside his feet, Martin still stabbing him, a molten glow blossoming in his stomach, and as he reached down to touch the source of this tremendous pain, Martin grabbed a handful of his hair, Tim’s head torqued back, staring at the ceiling, the phone ringing, and he felt the knifepoint enter his neck just under his jawbone, smelled the rusty stench of his blood on the blade, and Martin said as he opened his throat, “I’m so sorry, Timmy. It’s almost over.”
The taste of metal was strong in Laura’s mouth, even before she saw the shadow emerge from the corner of the garage, the floodlights sensor triggered, Martin jogging toward the cruiser.
She ducked down behind the seats and flattened herself across the floorboards, her heart pounding under her pajama top.
The front driver side door opened.
Light flooded the interior.
Martin climbed in, shut the door, sat motionless behind the wheel until the dome light winked out.
At last, Laura heard the jingle of keys.
The engine cranked, the car backing down the driveway and tears coming, her eyes welling up with fear and something even worse—the uncertain horror of what had just happened in their home while she was locked in the back of this car.
She reached up, her fingers grazing the backseat upholstery, just touching the leather cell phone case.
When Martin spoke, it startled the hell out of her and she jerked her arm back down into her chest.
“Hey guys, it’s Marty. Listen, I’m really concerned based on my conversation with Tim. I’m coming over, and I hope we can talk about this. You know, I still remember your wedding day. Been what, eight years? Look, everyone goes through rocky patches, but this…well, let’s talk in person when I get there.”
Laura stifled her sobs as the car slowed and made a long, gentle left turn, wondering if they were driving through the roundabout at the entrance to the subdivision.
Under his breath, Martin sighed, said, “Where the fuck are you?”
She grabbed the leather case off the seat, pried out the phone in the darkness.
The screen lit up. She dialed 911, pressed talk.
The cruiser eased to a stop.
“Connecting…” appeared on the screen, and she held the phone to her ear.
The driver door opened and slammed, Laura’s eyes briefly stinging in the light. She heard Martin’s footsteps trail away on the pavement and still the phone against her ear had yet to ring.
She pulled it away, read the message: “Signal Faded Call Lost.”
In the top left corner of the screen, the connectivity icon that for some reason resembled a martini glass displayed zero bars.
The footsteps returned and Martin climbed back in, put the car into gear.
The acceleration of the hearty V8 pushed Laura into the base of the backseat.
Martin chuckled.
Laura held the phone up behind Martin’s seat, glimpsed a single bar on the screen.
“Laura?”
She froze.
“You have to tell me what that skin cream is,” he said. “Whole car smells like it.”
She didn’t move.
“Come on, I know you’re back there. Saw you when I got out of the car a minute ago. Now sit the fuck up or you’re gonna make me angry.”
That lonely bar on the cell phone screen had vanished.
Laura pushed up off the floorboard, climbed into the seat.
Martin watched her in the rearview mirror.
They were driving through the north end of the subdivision, the porchlights as distant as stars in the heavy, midnight fog.
Martin turned onto their street.
“What’d you do to my husband?” Laura asked, fighting tears.
The phone in her lap boasted two strong bars and very little battery.
She reached down, watched 9-1-1 appear on the screen as her fingers struggled to find the right buttons in the dark.
“What were you doing in my cruiser?” Martin asked. “Looking for this?”
He held up his second cell phone as Laura pressed talk.
Through the tiny speaker, the phone in her hand began to ring.
She said, “When did you know?”
“When you played the message.”
Martin turned into their driveway.
“I’m really sorry about all this, Laura. Just an honest to God…” He stomped the brake so hard that even at that slow rate of speed, Laura slammed into the partition. “You fucking bitch.”
Faintly: “Nine-one-one. Where is your emergency?”
Martin jammed the shifter into park, threw open the door.
“Oh, God, send someone to—”
The rear passenger door swung open and Martin dove in, Laura crushed under his weight, his hand cupped over her mouth, the phone ripped from her hand, and then the side of her head exploded, her vision jogged into a darkness that sparked with burning stars.
Laura thought, I’m conscious.
She felt the side of her face resting against the floor, and when she tried to raise her head, her skin momentarily adhered to the hardwood.
She sat up, opened her eyes, temples throbbing.
Four feet away, slumped on the floor beside the sink, Tim lay staring at her, eyes open and vacant, a black slit yawning under his chin.
And though she sat in her own kitchen in a pool of her husband’s blood, legs burgundy below the knees, hair matted into bloody dreads like some demon Rasta, she didn’t scream or even cry.
Her yellow teddy was slathered in gore, her left breast dangling out of a tear across the front. She held a knife in her left hand that she’d used to skin a kiwi for breakfast a thousand years ago, Tim’s .357 in her right.
The front door burst open, footsteps pounding through the foyer, male voices yelling, “Mooresville Police!”
She craned her neck, saw two cops arrive in the archway between the kitchen and the living room—a short man with a shaved head and her brother-in-law, wide-eyed and crying.
The short man said, “Go in the other room, Martin. You don’t
need to see—”
“She’s got a gun!”
“Shit. Drop that right now!”
“Come on, Laura, please!”
“You wanna get shot?”
They were pointing their Glocks at her, screaming for her to drop the gun, and she was trying, but it had been super-glued to her hand, and she attempted to sling it across the room to break the bond, but even her pointer finger had been cemented to the trigger, the barrel of the .357 making a fleeting alignment on the policemen, and they would write in their reports that she was making her move, that deadly force had been the only option, both lawmen firing—Officer McCullar twice, Officer West four times—and when the judgment fell, both men were deemed to have acted reasonably, the hearts of the brass going out to West in particular, the man having found his little brother murdered and been forced to shoot the perpetrator, his own sister-in-law.
All things considered, a month of paid leave and weekly sessions with a therapist was the very least they could do.
An introduction to “Remaking”
“Remaking” was born in a coffee shop one afternoon. I was seated at a table toward the back, working at my laptop, when a conversation slipped into range. I looked up, saw a young boy of five or six sitting with a middle-aged man. I eavesdropped, and for some reason, something felt off. Like maybe that boy wasn’t supposed to be with that man. Was he kidnapped? A missing child? Then the boy called him “Dad” and a woman joined them. The familial vibe shone through, and that jolt of uncertainty passed. But the questions remained. What if the woman had not joined them? What if I still felt suspicious when the boy and the man got up to leave? Would I have followed them and tried to intervene? These thirty seconds of uncertainty were the origin of “Remaking,” although, as is often the case, when I began to write, I found the story held a few surprises for me, and that it wasn’t so simple or straightforward. But that was okay. In the end, those are the most fun to write.
remaking
Mitchell stared at the page in the notebook, covered in his messy scrawl, but he wasn’t reading. He’d seen them walk into the coffeehouse fifteen minutes prior, the man short, pudgy, and smoothshaven, the boy perhaps five or six and wearing a long-sleeved Oshkoshbgosh—red with blue stripes.
