“You know, it’s funny, when you were taking a nap, Brandy told me how much she loves camping and how you were always the one who never wanted to go when you were a kid. Now you want to go and Brandy doesn’t. What a fuckin’ crazy family.”
Hart paused for a moment and then changed his tone.
“Look, we all should go. There’s too much to take and I just think we all need a little R and R. So Brandy, just help us out, please. You don’t need a backpack. You can just carry the tent. It’s pretty light. Come on, we need you and it’ll be fun. You’re our guest here. We should do things together.”
Brandy squeezed her lips together and cocked her head a little. “Okay, Hart.” Then she glanced up at Summer and quickly looked away.
_______________
Hart and Brandy finished getting their stuff together and convened in the living room.
“How you doing in there?” Hart called to Summer, still in the bedroom.
“I’ll be ready in a couple minutes.”
Hart and Brandy had been avoiding eye contact but looked at each other at the same time when they realized that they would be alone for a few minutes.
“You son of a bitch,” she hissed.
“Hey, screw you, Brandy,” Hart said, clutching her arm and leading her toward the front door. “You’re just as much a part of this as I am.”
They were both careful to whisper.
Brandy looked toward the bedroom door. “Hey, I never wanted to kill her.”
Hart’s eyes opened wide and he gaped at her. “It was your idea, you dumb bitch.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want to be there when it happens, asshole,” she said spitting air at him.
His voice got a little louder. “Oh no, you just want the rewards. You want me to do all the heavy lifting.”
“Shhh. Hey, we already worked things out. That’s what we agreed to, jerkoff.”
“Yeah, well things changed. So roll with it.”
“Hey listen, if—”
“Ready to go.” It was Summer. She was standing at the bedroom door, backpack in tow.
THIRTY
AS THE THREE OF THEM began the hike, it was apparent that there was at least a little tension in the air.
Hart was deep in thought about his impending task. Two things were important to him. One was that he would be successful. The second was that he would handle things well. He wanted to be a certain kind of guy. A big fish. He had planned this thing out and had been handed a real gift in that everyone already thought Summer was dead, giving him the perfect alibi He wanted to carry his plan out with a certain flair that said, ‘You’re unique. You’re not like everyone else. You beat the system. You, Hartence Smith the Third, don’t shoot people in the back. You draw, spin your gun around, do a cartwheel, and then outdraw your nemesis. You do it with panache, if that’s the right word. I’m pretty sure it is.’
That’s what he had been trying to get Brandy to understand from the beginning when she had said, ‘Why don’t you just push her?’ Push her. And now here she was, giving him grief about coming along on this walk. Like he didn’t have enough on his mind.
Summer, for her part, was quiet. She was hard to get a handle on and it seemed for awhile, on this hike, that everyone was in his or her own little world. After some time, Hart at least, began to notice it. Like a kid on his first date, he suddenly felt the need to liven things up. He wasn’t supposed to be leading some melancholy sheep to slaughter. He had masterminded a well thought out scheme that was designed to astonish. This crime had to have atmosphere. Or at the very least, a lack of tension.
“Ahh,” he said loudly, with a smile on his face. “This is great being out here in the great outdoors all al fresco and shit. Excuse my French. Or was that Italian?”
Whatever it was, it didn’t illicit much response.
“Well, no matter. I just love being out in nature. It reminds me of when I was a boy scout. Either of you ever in Boy Scouts? No? But I bet you had some boy scouts in you!”
Hart laughed and shook his head. “That one just came together.”
“You’re a pig,” said Brandy.
Well, I guess that would make you a sow, he thought. “There are worse things to be, Brandilita. There are worse things.” He said it without offense, determined to keep his mood light.
Hart kept up the talking and sometimes the women would join in. But it was mainly Hart. Despite this, the overall mood had in fact changed and much of the palpable tension was gone.
“I know a great camp spot just on the other side of the bridge,” Hart said. “You gonna make it, right Summer?”
She felt her heart banging. “Yeah, yes.”
“Sure you can. You conquered it once. You can do it.” Just like falling off a log.
THIRTY-ONE
UNTIL THEN, THEY HAD generally walked next to each other, but as they got closer to the bridge, Hart began to pull ahead. Then he signaled to Brandy to make sure that she went second and that Summer went last. This was, of course, an important part of the plan.
As Hart took the first step onto the south end of the bridge, his heart really began to rev up. And the women, of course, felt it within themselves as well. You can practice and practice and visualize in your mind until your head aches, but until you get out on the field, you never really know how you’re going to perform.
He felt his throat getting dry and he paused for a drink of water. And like an addictive yawn, Summer and Brandy also took a swig. Might as well do something while they waited for Hart to finish his belt.
And then he moved forward, a little too fast, too anxious. About halfway over the bridge he stopped.
And that’s when Summer looked down. She had promised herself she wouldn’t, but she did. Then she put both hands on the same side of the bridge’s railing. Her heart was out of control but her breathing was measured. That much she did remember. However this played out, she’d take it one tiny manageable step at time, piecemeal. And above all, breathe. It would all be over soon.
“Summer,” Hart called past Brandy. “I dropped some uh, gloves back there. Black gloves. Would you mind going back and getting them for me? Check by the bushes.”
“Sure,” she said, instantly turning back toward the south end of the bridge, while Hart and Brandy continued on towards the north end. She walked at a quick pace and right before the last few steps, before stepping off the bridge, she removed her backpack and flung it down on the embankment of the gorge, standing it upright. It took no effort at all to do so as the backpack was filled with very little, and nothing of substantial weight, even though it did appear full.
Next she took out a camcorder, propped it up on top of the backpack, hit the record button and aimed it across the bridge toward Hart and Brandy. Then she reached into some bushes two feet from the head of the bridge. She did all of this very quickly, each step blurring into the next.
By now Hart and Brandy had reached the other end of the bridge and Hart was frantically groping around for his bolt cutters, while Brandy looked on, concerned. Hart had kept his backpack on and Brandy had the tent bag straps over her shoulder as their plan had depended on Summer being lured back across the bridge and they had to keep up appearances. But Summer didn’t move.
“Hart,” Summer called across the bridge.
“What?” he said, not bothering to look up, still beating the bushes, perplexed.
“Looking for this?” Summer held up the bolt cutters.
“Oh my God,” said Brandy. She immediately began searching for something. “Where’s the rope, Hart?”
“What?” he said. His attention immediately became frantic and divided between what each woman was saying.
“The rope,” Brandy said, almost screaming now, and then in a hushed tone out of the side of her mouth, “for reeling up this side of the bridge.”
“I moved it. To this side. It’s a feng shui thing,” Summer called across the bridge.
“Hey, what the fuck is goi
ng on?” said Hart, unsure quite yet how to proceed. He waved his arms and began pacing like a caged hyena within an invisible three foot square.
“Just relax Hart. Try to remain calm.” God, it felt great to say that to him after all these years of the shoe being on the other foot. And as if taking her own advice, she did start to feel calm herself. Or at least more wired than scared.
“It’s very simple,” Summer continued. “You were trying to kill me. Brandy was going to help you and instead I’m stopping you.” She felt her voice get stronger with every word.
“You can’t beat me, Summer. You’re dead.” He shook his head. “I got too much riding on this.” Then he took a step onto the bridge.
“Hart, wait,” said Summer. “Let me tell you what I’m going to do.”
Hart stopped and exhaled. “What?”
“Listen, I’ve got the bolt cutters. I’m going to cut the bridge from my end. You and Brandy hang out on your side for a little while and I’m going to come back with the police.”
“Sounds like a shitty plan so far.”
“Oh, come on now, Hart, be fair. I never made fun of your plan to kill me. It was pretty solid. Even the old glove routine.”
“Yeah well, it’s still going to happen. It’s just going to be a little sloppy now. But anyway, thanks for telling me your plan.”
“Wait a minute, I’m not done.”
“Yeah, well hurry up. I want to start collecting on your life insurance.”
Two days ago a comment like that would have killed Summer. Now she didn’t feel much of anything. Or at least she’d have to feel it later.
“Okay, here are the highlights—I’m going to cut the bridge so I would suggest you’re not on it when I do.”
“Oh my God! Is she recording this?” It was Brandy. She was pointing to the camcorder.
And then Hart’s eyes got very big. He was like a caged bull that was just released as he ran with everything he had across the bridge. But his physical effort was not matching his determination as the load on his back was really slowing him down. He felt forced to cut his speed—almost stop—for a second as he fumbled with his backpack, tossing it haphazardly over the bridge.
This slight break caused him to lose focus on Summer for a moment and he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Come on!” he yelled back to Brandy. “We gotta get to the other side fast!”
Brandy stuttered a second and then started running at top speed, committing to it. Within seconds she hurled the tent she’d been carrying on her shoulder over the side of the bridge as Hart had done with his backpack.
Their movement was quick, slowed now only by the hard and uneven timing of their steps on a bridge not designed for such motion. It caught Summer off guard, for just a moment. She saw the murderous look on Hart’s face and immediately crouched down and put the bolt cutters to work, fitting the jaws around one of the ropes that held the bottom of the left side of the bridge. As she gritted her teeth, straining, the idea of not being physically able to make the cut suddenly flashed in her mind for the first time and it horrified her. It took a few seconds of sustained squeezing before the thick rope finally gave way. ‘Snip.’ One out of four. Her hands ached, but she barely noticed as all she really saw was Hart bearing down on her, mayhem in his eyes.
It scared the hell out of her. And as the bridge shook she could almost feel Hart’s hot breath on her neck. Her face exploded with sweat as she grappled with the bolt cutters, trying to reposition herself for the next cut.
Then she heard a shriek. Or maybe more of a war cry. It was Hart. The locomotive was screaming. She had to think fast. She would try to cut the top two ropes, the handrails. They weren’t as thick and it should go faster.
As she got up from her squat, her back foot slipped and she kicked her leg out, hitting her backpack, which she felt strike the back of her calf as it fell over. With no time to turn around, she stood up and saw, through her peripheral vision, that the camcorder had been knocked over and along with her backpack, had slid down the lip of the gorge. There went her evidence.
But she couldn’t think about that now.
With one side of the bottom “rail” of the bridge now cut, the structure had become even more shaky, making her task harder.
But Hart kept coming, clomping along the right side of the increasingly twisting bridge. And this time she saw that he had a knife in his hand. Sixty feet away, fifty, forty, thirty. His breath was getting hotter.
She thought about running but instead, like an FBI agent defusing a bomb, she decided to bear down, try to ignore everything else.
This was easier said than done. It was beat the clock and she was torn between focusing on her task at hand and glancing up to see Hart’s progress. The idea of being caught off guard terrified her. If she didn’t at least pay some attention to him, she could see, in her mind, his boot kicking her in the face any second now while she was staring down at some rope.
‘Snip’ went one handrail. It was a little easier than the bottom. Certainly faster. Maybe she’d have time for one more. It would have to be the top one. She swung the cutters over to the other side and attempted to position the jaws, trying to time the rhythm of the shaking bridge. She opened them wide and clamped down hard. Glancing up she saw Hart’s angry red face. Her eyes remained fixed to his as she squeezed the bolt cutters. ‘Snip’. Three out of four and ten feet between them. The last rope wasn’t going to happen. So what else could she do with the bolt cutters that would be of any use?
Swinging it above her head, she threw it, like an axe, straight for Hart’s head. His shrieking stopped as he backpedaled, his eyes glued to the flying projectile. There wasn’t much to hang on to as the handrails, after being cut, had sort of peeled back, hanging limply, while the deck of the bridge was tilting a few degrees to one side, especially near her end of the bridge.
“Move back!” he yelled to Brandy who screamed and took several large steps backward, as did he.
The cutters landed at his feet and he tap danced away so they wouldn’t hit him.
“Pick ‘em up,” he shouted at Brandy as he stepped over them, speeding up again.
Summer’s instinct was to scream and run away but she stopped herself. She would not turn her back on him. That was the position of a victim and she knew if she assumed it, it would affect her whole psyche. If that happened it would be all over for her.
So instead she moved forward, her steps deliberate. After quickly removing her sweat suit jacket, she grounded herself as best she could on the increasingly unstable bridge. Staring into Hart’s eyes, she continued her advance. She could feel the terror in her face and wondered if Hart had picked up on it. She wanted to cry and knew she would—but later.
Hart was taken aback for a moment and stopped. Then he clenched his knife and held it a little higher and smiled.
Then not to be outdone by his gesture of confidence, she said, “Okay okay, Hart, I’ll bring you the gloves you asked for. Calm down.”
Hart scoffed and continued walking toward her, his knife held a little in front of him.
When they were within striking distance of each other, Summer held her hands up near her face, open palmed and then swung her right hand toward Hart’s head. The punch was pulled but had served its purpose. As Hart watched her hands, he didn’t realize that she had pivoted her body and then quickly struck his hand with a middle swinging kick which knocked his knife into the air. Hanging there for a moment it dropped like a stone into the belly of the gorge below.
Everyone was surprised—even Summer.
“I guess karate lessons have paid off,” he blurted out, not allowing himself to indicate that his hand had been injured by her kick.
Summer felt emboldened but uneasy by her position on the bridge. She had to move things more toward the center where the bridge was more stable as it was closer to the uncut north end.
Charging forward, her hands moved quickly as she threw multiple straight punches—mainly in
the air—as she had practiced numerous times in her karate classes. It took Hart off-guard and he quickly backpedaled. Brandy put her hands out to avoid being steamrolled and backpedaled herself, one step behind Hart.
And then in the midst of the punches, Summer surprised him with a front kick to his shin which caused him to stumble. Coming out of it, he charged forward, locking his hands around her throat. She instinctively tried to pry his hands away but he was too strong for her. Then he pulled his right hand back and struck her in the face, a hard but glancing blow. She felt dazed and wondered if she might pass out.
“Yeah! Get her,” Brandy said through clenched teeth, shaking her fists.
Summer’s face felt hot where Hart had struck her and she imagined a huge welt on her cheek. He pulled back again just as she was about to kick him. But he was too fast for her and the blow completely neutralized her kick as it just fizzled in the air.
Brandy danced behind him throwing air punches like she was watching a heavyweight fight on T.V. and her hometown boy had just turned the tide.
It appeared that Hart had found a winning strategy and he cocked his fist back again. But doing the same thing over and over again in war is rarely a winning strategy. It’s like telegraphing your punches to a boxer and sooner or later you pay for it. For Hart it would be sooner. The moment his fingers left her throat this time, Summer’s hands jetted outward as she planted a thumb in each of his eyes. And as he moved backward, Summer moved forward, her energy culminating in a tremendous front kick to Hart’s ribs.
She knew she had hurt him the moment her foot hit him, and her hands instinctively went up near the front of her face as she watched him fall.
And then came the cry of pain. Not from Hart, but from Brandy.
The speed of Summer’s kick had taken everyone off guard and as Hart had toppled backward he landed on top of a scrambling Brandy who had been trying to turn and run. Her foot, in a starting block position, took the full brunt of Hart’s dead weight, twisting and cracking her ankle on impact.
Hart rolled a little to the side to free Brandy’s foot. But despite this movement, it was clear from the excruciating look on his face that he wouldn’t be getting up too quickly.
Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife Page 11
