Kill Switch

by Neal Baer

  “How often did this happen?”

  “Every time I did something wrong.”

  “Did you tell anybody?”

  “She said if I did, that she’d do worse, that she was a nurse and knew right where to hit me so nobody would ever know.”

  “And you didn’t think your father would protect you.”

  “He was on the road eight months a year. I didn’t think he could. But I was wrong about that.”

  “So he found out,” Claire said as she moved her chair closer to him.

  “When I was six. Walked in on her doing it to me. Harder than usual.”

  “You’re smiling,” Claire observed.

  Quimby hadn’t felt the grin forming.

  “I was thinking about what Dad did to her.”

  “Which was?” Claire asked, her eyes widening.

  “He grabbed the flyswatter and hit her with it. ‘How do you like that?’ he said. Then he grabbed a rolling pin. ‘He’s just a boy,’ he said, and he beat the hell out of her. Whack, whack, whack . . .”

  Claire hid her revulsion as he imitated the motion, the half-grin still on his face. A six-year-old enjoying the sight of his father beating his mother. How pathetic is that?

  “You weren’t upset?” Claire asked, breaking eye contact with Quimby.

  “She deserved it,” he said, tilting his head so that he could see Claire’s eyes again.

  He wants to tell me. Claire looked him straight in the eyes. “Was your mother hurt badly?”

  “She was all black and blue. Threatened to call the cops on him. Dad said if she did, he’d tell them he beat her because she was a child molester. That the cops in Dubuque—that’s where we lived—would put her in jail and throw away the key.”

  “And that stopped her.”

  “From calling the cops. Not from packing a suitcase and leaving.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Appleton, Wisconsin, to her parents.”

  “But she came back.”

  “The next day. My grandfather told her she made her own bed and now she had to lie in it. Same thing he said to her when she got knocked up with me.”

  Claire paused, considering the implication of Quimby’s last comment. She abused her son because she resented him for ruining her life.

  “Did your mother tell you this?” she finally asked.

  “My mother didn’t tell me shit. My father gave me the whole story.” Quimby leaned toward Claire, staring into her eyes. “I suppose you want to hear that too.”

  “We said everything.”

  Quimby smiled again, now enjoying Claire’s attention. “One Saturday night, the carny’s in Appleton. Dad’s waiting for the crowd to leave so he can close the gate when this girl comes up to him. Asks what’s his favorite part of the carnival. He tells her the bumper cars. She giggles and says, ‘I heard that’s not the best ride here.’ Dad sees her two friends standing a few feet back, giggling like idiots. Realizes he laid one of them the night before. So he says, ‘Yeah, and which ride did she say was the best?’ She says, ‘Carnival Knowledge. Like the movie with Jack Nicholson.’ So Dad tells her he’ll take her on that ride if she sticks around after he closes up.”

  “And he did.”

  Quimby grinned. “Three times. Once on the bumper cars and two more times in his trailer.”

  Claire realized his pleasure came from her facial expression of disgust. This time, she made no effort to hide it.

  “Your father described to you how he had sex with your mother.”

  “He told me everything he did to her. But I don’t wanna get into it. She was my mother, after all.”

  But the grin remained. He wants me to ask him for the details. No way.

  “When did she tell your father she was pregnant?”

  “She didn’t. Three months later, when the carny was back in Wisconsin, my grandfather arrested him for raping his daughter.”

  “Your grandfather was a cop?”

  “Police chief in Appleton. Said he’d drop the charges if Dad married my mother. Dad told me it was better than doing fifteen years hard time.”

  “How’d your mother feel about that?”

  “She wanted to abort me, but my grandfather wouldn’t let her. And no daughter of his was giving birth to no bastard child, either. She hated my father from the second she said ‘I do.’ ”

  “Because he got her pregnant.”

  “Because she knew being hitched wasn’t gonna stop him from boning every gash he could sweet-talk himself into.”

  “Doesn’t sound like your father had a lot of respect for women.”

  “Sure he did. And he taught me the same.”

  “How old were you when he started ‘teaching’ you?”

  “Around five, I think. ‘Lot lizards’ll bang anybody,’ he’d say, ‘so if you want to do one of them, enter at your own risk ’cause you don’t know what’s living up there.’ ”

  “What’s a ‘lot lizard’?”

  “Carnival sluts. PBQs were a lot safer.”

  “And a PBQ is . . .”

  “Carny-speak for ‘possum belly queen.’ Those are the girls who’ll have sex with you in the compartment under a truck. Dad said they were cleaner because they were more picky about who they did. But he said the best ones to lay are townies like my mother, because once the carnival rolled out, you’d never have to see them again. Turns out he was wrong about that, huh?”

  What kind of father talks to his kid this way? Claire might as well have said it aloud because Quimby read her face and flashed that evil grin.

  “He didn’t just teach me. He showed me.”

  I have no choice; I’ve gotta know. “Showed you what?”

  “You know, like how to have a good time watching porn videos,” Quimby said matter-of-factly. “Then when I was seven, we were in Decatur, Illinois, with the carny, and he had me watch him do a nineteen-year-old to show me how to get a girl off.”

  There it is again—that grin. I’m gonna wipe it off his face.

  “Todd . . . your father never touched you, did he?”

  She had barely finished the sentence when Quimby flew out of his chair.

  “You calling my father some kinda homo?”

  “No, but since your mother abused you, I had to make sure,” Claire said calmly, though inside she was all Jell-O. “Now why don’t you sit down?”

  Quimby glared at her, then obeyed.

  “My father didn’t hurt me,” he bellowed. “He told my mother if she ever laid a hand on me again, he’d kill her. He took me on the road with him whenever I didn’t have school so I wouldn’t have to be near her. That man saved me from that rancid bitch.”

  “You and your dad were pals,” Claire said. “He really loved you.”

  “How many fathers teach their sons to be a man?” Quimby asked. Claire blinked. “Not many. Not like my dad did with me.”

  Keep him on track and he’s mine.

  “Were you with him that day?”

  “Yeah, Fat Ralphie smoked too much crank the night before, and they couldn’t get him outta bed, so Dad was manning the shooting gallery and putting the moves on this girl Sara.”

  “Did she travel with the carnival?”

  “No, she was a greenie. That’s what we call a townie who comes to work for us while we’re there. She was just off a shift in the ticket booth and Dad’s bragging how good I am with the gun.”

  “Your father was using you to meet women.”

  “He did it all the time.”

  “Obviously because it worked.”

  “Except Sara wanted to get into my pants.”

  “How do you know?”

  “ ’Cause she bent over to hug me and buried my head between her massive titties. Then she kissed me, except it wasn’t no peck on the cheek. Girl stuck her tongue right down my throat.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Quimby flashed the grin. “You’d like me to say yes, wouldn’t you? So you can tell all your buddies o
ver a couple of beers.”

  “I can’t tell anyone what we discuss here,” she replied, “and the only thing I want is for you to tell me the truth. This isn’t a game we’re playing. Do you understand?”

  Her stern tone was enough to make Quimby back down. The grin disappeared.

  “Hell, I was only nine,” he said. “I backed away and whined to Dad that she put her tongue in my mouth. He just laughs, says in a coupla years I won’t be able to get enough of her tongue. Then she asks Dad if I’m too young to ‘shoot’ my own gun and Dad says, ‘For now, yeah, but the kid likes to juggle.’ Sara leans in again and says, ‘Then I’ll bet he’s good with his hands. He should come with us.’ ”

  “Did you?”

  “Nope. Dad says he’s taking Sara back to the trailer to check her receipts, meaning he’s gonna bang her. Says I can’t go because if I do, who’s gonna run the booth?”

  “He left you there alone?”

  “Why not? It was a slow Thursday afternoon, and there were plenty of carnies around in case somebody wanted to make trouble. I done it before and he trusted me. So I just kept shooting the BB gun in between customers, when all of a sudden here comes Mom through the gate in her nurse’s uniform.”

  “What did she want?”

  “What she always wanted—to catch Dad in the act. The carny was in Dyersville, only half an hour from home. Usually Dad would have me wait outside the trailer if we were that close, in case she showed up. He even gave me a whistle to blow to warn him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Should’ve. She didn’t see me at first, so I pulled the whistle out of my pocket, put it around my neck, and tried to sneak out from behind the booth when the one guy shooting a Thompson hits a bull’s-eye and starts screaming, ‘Who’s gonna give me my teddy bear?’ Mom hears him, turns, sees me, and comes running. I would’ve lost her except I tripped and she caught up.”

  Quimby stopped. His lower lip quivered.

  “What is it, Todd?” Claire asked, knowing she was getting close to a breakthrough.

  “I think I’m done now.”

  “Did she hit you?”

  Nothing. He looked down, trying to hide the tears welling up in his eyes.

  “I know it still hurts,” Claire said as comfortingly as she could. “It’s okay. You can see it, can’t you. You can see her.”

  He looked up after a long silence. “She choked me,” he said. “My mother choked me. With the chain from the whistle. ‘Daddy’ll come right away if I blow this,’ I told her. ‘Not this time,’ she says. She slaps me across the face. ‘You’re a liar,’ she says, ‘just like your father. Well, you’re both done lying to me.’ ”

  “She knew where your father was.”

  “She knew where the trailers were. She just looked for the one rocking back and forth like there was an earthquake, ran ahead of me, and went in. The music from the carousel was so loud. I just stood there. I couldn’t move.”

  Claire heard thunder in the distance, but she couldn’t move. “It’s okay,” she heard Amy say to her. “Mr. Winslow works with my dad.”

  Claire blinked away the image. Help him. Help him along. “And that’s when you heard the gunshots.”

  “Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop,” he uttered. “I knew it couldn’t be from the shooting gallery ’cause we were too far away. So I ran up to the trailer. That’s when my mother came out and I smelled the burnt popcorn.”

  But Claire was looking at Mr. Winslow. “How did you know Amy was at my house?” she asked him. “Her mother told me you two were having a playdate,” he replied, annoyed.

  Claire recovered. “It wasn’t burnt popcorn, was it.”

  “I saw smoke coming out of her purse. And then I saw the blood. All over her. I started to scream. She puts her hand over my mouth, grabs me. And she says . . .”

  “What, Todd? What did she say?”

  “ ‘Come see what you did to your father.’ ”

  A sudden rush of footsteps. Amy screamed. Claire turned, just in time to see Mr. Winslow carrying Amy to his car.

  She saw Quimby’s tears were coming faster now. What’s happening to me?

  “I beg her, ‘Don’t make me go in there.’ I try to run but she grabs me in a choke hold and pulls me up the steps through the door. I can’t breathe. . . . I close my eyes and turn away. But she grabs my head and almost twists it off. ‘You’re gonna see this,’ she says, and then she grabs my eyelids and pulls them open and I see them.”

  “Your dad and Sara.”

  “Mommy, Mommy, come out here! Please . . .”

  “She was still on top of him. And blood’s pouring out of her head. My father’s head . . . is gone. She takes this huge gun out of her purse. Points the gun at me. Pulls the trigger . . .”

  Claire’s chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe. It was hot and humid in the room. Like a storm was coming.

  “Nothing happened,” Quimby sobbed. “She was out of bullets. So she threw the gun down and walked out.”

  “Mommy! The man took Amy away. . . .”

  Claire was lost. Quimby was staring at her.

  “Say something! You put me through this bullshit, so why don’t you tell me why I’m so screwed up?”

  That brought her back. She chose her words carefully.

  “Only a psychopath wouldn’t be affected by what you went through, Todd.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you got for me? That’s why I keep getting into trouble?”

  “I think that’s why you have the attitude you do toward women.”

  “Oh, now I have an attitude toward women?”

  “Your father made you watch him masturbate and have sex. Your mother forced you to see how she shot him to death. These experiences made you into someone who likes to watch. To shock people. To look at them and make them have to look at you. Like you’ve been looking at me the whole time we’ve been together.”

  Quimby’s eyes filled with rage.

  “I swear, as I’m sitting here right now, my mother should’ve shot me. I wish the bitch killed me too.”

  Why not me? Why didn’t Winslow take me? Claire thought. Her skin suddenly grew cold. Her back stiffened. Something inside her switched off. “When was the last time you saw your mother?” Claire asked.

  “The day I testified against her in court. Then I came here to live with my grandmother.”

  “She never took you back to visit?”

  “Once. But Mom wouldn’t see me,” he said as he stopped crying.

  “Why not?”

  “She said I had his face. And she hated it. She said the whole thing was my fault.”

  “Todd, it’s not your fault that she murdered him.” Mommy said it’s not my fault. What happened to Amy was not my fault.

  “Sure it is,” Quimby answered.

  “Why? How could you possibly think it’s your fault?” Claire replied softly.

  “Because I didn’t blow the whistle,” Quimby said. “He protected me from her. And when he really needed me the most, I wasn’t there for him. I screwed up.”

  Thunder. Claire could see Amy, in tears, peering at her through the window of Mr. Winslow’s BMW. Somehow knowing they would never see each other again.

  In the observation room, Fairborn waited for Claire to make her next move. But there was only silence.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said to Curtin. “Why isn’t Claire saying anything?”

  “After what she just got out of him, you’re asking that?” demanded Curtin. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious,” Fairborn shot back. “Look at her. She’s as stiff as a piece of steel.”

  Curtin looked at the monitor. Sure enough, Claire was staring into space. Then, through the speakers, they heard Claire say, “How did you feel when you saw your mother kill your father and his lover?”

  Claire knew the words were wrong as they were leaving her mouth. But Quimby’s story had shut her down.

  “How do you think I felt? Are you bli
nd or didn’t you see what you made me go through?”

  She picked up his file, reading to cover her discomfort. “I mean, was your heart racing? Were you sweating? Breathing hard?”

  “I can’t remember, okay? I was nine. What difference does it make?”

  “Because that’s a sign of an anxiety disorder. If you’re anxious now, we have medication to help you with that.” Amy, what did he do to you? Stop! Stop! I don’t want to think about it. . . .

  “I’ve been on medication. Xanax, Klonopin. That shit didn’t work.”

  “From the looks of things, you’ve been self-medicating,” Claire said, her face buried in his medical records. What is happening to me?

  “You mean the dope? I was just having a good time.”

  “Or you were trying to forget about a bad time.”

  “What the hell kind of therapist are you?”

  “Therapy doesn’t work without the truth. Were you high when you exposed yourself to those women?” Dammit! Focus on him.

  “No. I just had an urge. But I learned to stifle them in here.”

  “Then why were you taking the drugs?”

  Quimby’s features tightened up. Now he leaned toward her. “You ever see something so horrible, that scared you so much you knew you’d spend the rest of your life trying to forget it?”

  Claire sprang out of her chair. “I’ll be seeing you once a week,” she said, her voice icy. “You must be on time. It’s a condition of your parole that you come to all your appointments at my office in Manhattan City Hospital.”

  Claire scribbled the building and room number on a slip of paper, handed it to Quimby, and without another word headed for the door.

  “What’s your first name?” came Quimby’s voice.

  Claire stopped, turned back to him. He was smiling.

  “It’s Claire,” she answered. “Why?”

  “Claire Waters? Clear Waters?”

  “So?”

  “Your parents ever tell you why they named you that?”

  He was still smiling. The same look as when she first came into the room. He thinks he has me. He’s right.

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “What the hell happened to her?” Fairborn asked as she watched Claire on the monitor leave the room.