122 Rules

by Deek Rhew

  The segment shifted to the burned hole that had at one time been listed by Bobby as a “Classic bungalow in the heart of suburbia.” How would the smarmy salesman spin the sale now? Perhaps: “Airy and open to nature, with great fixer-upper potential.”

  The camera panned to the scorched metal hulk that had been her car then a quick “eye witness” interview. The interviewee, her neighbor Todd or Trey or something, said he saw the house on fire. He then added for emphasis, “It was hot.” Those were his final words before switching back to the news anchor.

  Way to be descriptive there.

  “The explosion has been ruled an accident.” The news anchor completed the segment by reminding her audience that if they smelled anything unusual when entering their home, they should leave immediately and call the gas company from a neighbor’s house. The camera angle changed, and the newscaster’s expression transformed to one of happiness as she announced, “Imagine being a kitten in a basket full of yarn…”

  Monica clicked the power button, the scene of the cute and playful fur ball wrestling with red and green yarn shrinking to a pinpoint of light before winking out.

  Dead. Everyone thought she had died. Really? She had expected to live on the run, having to watch over her shoulder. But being dead… What exactly did that mean?

  All she knew was that she needed both coffee and a plan. But first, she wandered back to the bathroom to get dressed.

  She picked up her blouse and sniffed the pits. It didn’t smell too rank, but then again, she had grown accustomed to the dank odor of the hotel, so who really knew for sure? She stared at the sink, considering washing everything in the little basin, but then she’d have to wait for her clothes to dry or be forced to put them on wet. She could handle wearing day-old pants and shirt but hadn’t sunk so low she would wear soiled underwear.

  Monica winced as she slid, commando, into the slacks, her back protesting at the stretch and pull of bending over to thread her feet into the pant legs.

  Lisa would have undoubtedly had an entire armada of hair and makeup supplies in her ample purse, paired with the skills of a starlet’s—say JLo’s or Madonna’s—dressing team to go with them. But Monica’s modest shoulder bag carried no such provisions. So she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to straighten and untangle the worst of the knots, then splashed cold water on her face.

  She took a deep, cleansing breath. For the first time in memory, she had gained her freedom. As a dead girl, she had been released from the oppressive weight of the FBI pawing through her life and tracking her every movement. Free from living in a place she hated. Free to be under her own control for the first time since that day at the library about a million years ago.

  The bomb hadn’t so much wiped the slate clean as blown it to bits, sending the shards of her old life to all corners of the globe.

  She wiped the steam from the mirror, and her eyes widened in surprise. Braless, in a loose blouse, with a new, relaxed demeanor—she could have been a Feng Shui consultant or even a street musician. Donning her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, Monica smiled at herself in the mirror, then shouldered her purse and headed out to the car.

  * * *

  The Stardust motel lay on the outskirts of a small town Monica didn’t know. She drove up the main strip, slipping the Audi next to the curb in front of a small coffee shop. The few citizens strolling the sidewalks didn’t give the battered car a second glance, and she pushed through the glass door of the Happy Lizard Bistro.

  The clean and well-kept shop contained just a smattering of patrons seated at small round tables next to the big windows facing the street. On a television hanging from a ceiling corner, the same news station she’d watched in her room dished out snippets of drama in bite-sized, thirty-second segments. These tiny soap operas intermixed with promises of more of the same. The recent trend of networks playing cute and hilarious videos swiped from the Internet—nothing more than cheap gimmicks—screamed of desperation.

  These guys have even less idea of what they’re doing than I do.

  Monica turned her attention to the counter attendant. The girl behind the cash register, with braces and a deeply pocked face, rang up her order for a giant chocolate mocha and the biggest cinnamon roll in the display case. She was already dead; screw the calories.

  “Oh, that poor thing,” the girl said.

  Monica followed Pock Face’s gaze, and her blood ran cold as the TV network recycled the news segment she had seen earlier. As the clip ended and her dour photo faded from the screen, she thought, This is it. The jig is up. This coffee girl is going to scream, “Oh my god! You’re her, the one in the news.”

  Instead, acne girl said, “I hope she didn’t have kids or anything,” then handed Monica her food.

  In a daze, Monica carried her purchases to an empty table where she picked at the cinnamon roll. The authorities thought her dead—the victim not of a mob hit trying to tie up a loose end, but of faulty workmanship and a rogue possum with a taste for gas lines.

  Pock Face, though probably not an Ivy League scholar, had looked at the image on TV and directly at “Susan” standing right in front of her. Yet the cashier hadn’t recognized her as the person from the news segment. If she didn’t make the connection, maybe others wouldn’t either. Maybe Monica had a chance.

  She finished her food and wandered down the street, becoming more confident with each step as her anonymity remained secure. She found an open thrift store where she picked out several outfits and a pair of half-worn running shoes. For less than a hundred dollars, she had the semblance of a wardrobe again.

  Three doors down in the Laundromat, she read old magazines and watched TV while her clothes spun and rinsed then tumble dried through the industrial-sized machines. She folded her clothes and drove the beat-to-shit Audi back to the motel.

  She’d escaped—disappeared like Houdini and fooled the police, the FBI, everyone. She flexed her arms, kissed her tiny biceps, and roared. I am a self-assured woman. I am Xena the warrior princess. I am Joan of Arc.

  I am...deluding myself. What I am is lucky and in need of help.

  Since both Mr. Damon and Mr. Craig seemed otherwise occupied, she turned to the same person she always did.

  Lisa’s laptop had been amongst the files in the trunk of the car. Monica started it up and logged onto her email. The screen did a weird pause and flash thing, similar to what her own had done last week when she’d opened the email app. The odd hiccup only occurred once, and then the computer seemed to be fine.

  She disregarded the PC’s behavior and clicked New Message. But then she paused. Did she really feel like typing all of this out? So much had happened. Maybe she could just say, “Call me.” The room had a phone. Then she remembered one of the other things she bought at the truck stop and set the computer aside.

  Rummaging through the packages of nuts, protein bars, and bottles of water, she pulled out what she sought and plopped down on the bed. She removed the packaging containing the pre-paid cell phone, powered it up, worked through the little welcome menu, and then dialed a number she knew by heart.

  “Hello,” Angel’s voice came through the little receiver, and relief flooded through her.

  “Ang, it’s me.”

  “Mon! Oh my god! How are you?” Angel sounded pleased to hear from her. After a heartbeat, she said, “Wait, what’s the matter? You said you weren’t supposed to call me, and I don’t recognize this number. What happened?”

  “Jesus, Ang, how do you do that?”

  “It’s a gift. Now spill.”

  “I need your help.” Monica began to pace the room.

  They talked for a few minutes before Monica disconnected. Her angel had taken flight, on the way to rescue her. Again.

  27

  Sam rode east on a lonely patch of highway toward his empty apartment. As the blacktop slipped under the bike’s wheels, he puzzled through the mess he’d left back in Walberg.

 
What mess? Chet asked. You did exactly what you always do. Put everything aside and did your job. Didn’t consider what you were doing, didn’t listen to me, just handed that girl over to Josha without really thinking it through.

  But I did listen to you. Sam shook his head. I didn’t pull the trigger, and I was going to go in and talk to her.

  Yes, but she’s still dead. Maybe you should have thought it through sooner. You might have been able to save her.

  Sam shrugged. What’s to think through? She’s obviously involved in the drug trade, or Josha wouldn’t have had me looking for her.

  Jesus, okay, maybe. But maybe not. What about what she told you? Chet’s indignation turned the question into an accusation.

  What about it? Sam snapped back.

  Witness Protection. The trial. Don’t you think you could have at least followed up? Run a couple of web searches? Done a little digging for more information? That’s your stock-in-trade, right? Finding out the dirt on people? Or do you only do that when you want to manipulate them? And once you have what you need, it’s sayonara baby.

  Sam had no response. Chet wasn’t wrong.

  His subconscience continued, So why didn’t you? Is it because Monica reminded you of Tracy? You remember Tracy? Your ex?

  Screw you. No.

  Dude, I live in your mind. I have access to everything. You can’t hide anything from me.

  Okay, so maybe she did…a little. So what?

  So, I’m just sayin’, maybe you didn’t want to dig deeper because you didn’t want to think about her.

  Dr. Freud, I presume.

  Whatever, you need to reevaluate this.

  It was true. For a minute, Sam had been back—back with Tracy and that whole mess. But he couldn’t place the connection between the two women.

  Sam had once led the charmed life of a popular, full-ride college athlete. Academically mediocre—though all the right people had predicted a promising, prominent future as a pro soccer star—he hadn’t worried about his grades. Only a sophomore at UCLA, he had already been meeting with recruiters who were more than willing to help him lay out his career.

  He and his fraternal twin brother, Jake, had attended yet another college frat party. Usually these impromptu bashes proved fun, but an hour in, the party lagged. He had considered walking back to their apartment when a sandy-haired girl strolled into the room arm-in-arm with a man built roughly like a Kenmore refrigerator, only bigger. In that instant, everything else around him stopped; his whole being transfixed. Never taking his eyes off her, he leaned over to his brother and said, “Hey, see that girl over there?”

  Jake followed his gaze and found the tall blonde. “Yeah, what about her?”

  “I’m going to marry her.”

  Jake rolled his eyes and sighed. “Little Bro, first of all, you also said you were going to marry the brunette you saw at the coffee shop last week, and before that, the chick in the bookstore was the one. Remember? What happened there? Crash ’n’ burn, baby. Neither wanted anything to do with you. Face it, when they were handing out charm, I got a double helping, and you got the crumbs. Second, do you see the three-hundred-pound meat locker she came with? The one that looks like he grinds skinny-ass shrimps, like you for instance, in his morning, steroid-laden protein shakes? Before you go sending out the invitations, Romeo, maybe you should run your plan by him first?”

  “Come on, all I need is for someone to distract the walrus so I can talk to her.”

  “There are just so many ways this could go wrong.”

  He punched his brother in the arm. “You’re supposed to be my wingman; are you saying you’re not up to the challenge? Besides, isn’t it worth it for true love?”

  “Jesus, you are absolutely so full of shit it’s oozing out of your pores.”

  Sam grinned and fluttered his lashes at Jake, knowing his brother had already climbed on board.

  Jake sighed. “Fine. Give me a couple minutes.” He set his beer down and, as a way of parting advice, thumped his finger against Sam’s chest. “Don’t. Mess. Up.” He waded into the crowd towards the couple.

  Sam watched as his twin strolled up to the big man and smiled his charming Jake smile. They started talking. A couple of minutes later, they headed outside. Sam followed in his brother’s wake.

  The sandy-haired beauty stood talking with a couple of other girls. Sam caught a bit of the conversation, something about school and finals. He walked right up to her, looked into her bright blue eyes, and hit her with his best opener.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, yourself.” Sam’s heart quickened as she flashed a shy smile.

  Her friends looked at them, sized up the situation, and vanished into the crowd. God bless women’s intuition.

  Something inside him melted, and he knew the end of his bachelor years had arrived. “So, I ummm, was standing over there and thinking it was time to go when I saw you. Something made me come over and talk to you. I’m not particularly good at this actually.” The words stumbled and bumbled their way out of him.

  She blushed. “Well, you’re doing pretty good so far. I’m Tracy.” She offered her hand.

  Heat rose in his cheeks. “Sam.” He gathered her fingers into his own.

  They didn’t drop hands when she asked, “So, my boyfriend has disappeared. Don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

  “Maybe. My brother...” He didn’t finish because someone built roughly the size of a Kenmore refrigerator, only bigger and a lot angrier, spun him around.

  Jake said, “Sorry, Little Bro. He figured it out.” A fist, about the same size and density of a block of ice, made high-velocity contact with his face. Makes sense, Sam thought as he passed out. The dude’s a fridge.

  A year and half later, Sam and Tracy had plans to be married right after he graduated. She still had a year more, but, for the time being, would drop out. They discussed the matter thoroughly and came to the conclusion that she had her entire life to finish school. For their first few years, they would move around the country together as he traveled with whatever soccer team he chose. She wanted to travel, and what better way than with a new husband on someone else’s dime?

  Everything changed on the night of the accident. A few insignificant seconds that meant nothing and everything.

  Each click of the clock’s racing hands seared into Sam’s brain like the frames of the worst home movie ever—high-def and 3D, crystal-clear images recounting his failure. He had always been powerless to prevent the demon in his mind from playing this horrid piece of footage over and over.

  The beast fed the film into the projector’s spinning wheels and cogs. Sam could hear their click click click and the underlying hum of current driving the machine’s mechanisms. Each time, the same dread and hopelessness filled him. Sam, an audience of one, viewed the most pivotal time in his life, reflected on the silver screen of his mind. The inevitable emotions it dredged with it felt as fresh and alive as the night it happened.

  The incredible, ever-charming Jake had convinced a buddy to let them borrow a fully restored 1963 Cobra. While cruising the streets—Jake behind the wheel—Sam popped open the glove box to discover a small baggie hidden among the maps, insurance card, and car registration.

  “Hey, hey, check this out,” Sam said, holding the small bag of white powder for Jake to see.

  “Oh, man, we don’t need that. If you want an adrenaline rush, I’ll give you one.” He revved the engine for emphasis.

  “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to try it.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Jake looked at him for far too long while guiding the vehicle along a row of parked cars. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I have.”

  “See.” Sam smacked his brother’s shoulder. “I knew it.” He opened the bag and scooped a little of the powder onto his finger. He held it to his nose, hesitated, then snorted. He did it again with the other nostril.

  “All right. All r
ight. Don’t hold out on me.”

  Sam repeated the process, offering his brother his powder-laden fingertip. Jake looked at it, dipped his head, and snorted.

  At first nothing happened, then fireworks went off in Sam’s brain. “Bam!” he yelled. “Wooooooo!”

  “Bam is right! Oh my gawd, that’s awesome!”

  “Right?”

  “Hey. Want to have some real fun?” Jake asked. He turned up the radio and floored the accelerator.

  Every time, the movie ran through the old reel-to-reel: his brother missing the curve and the Cobra flying over the embankment; the roof breaking off and Sam being thrown clear just before the vehicle landed, tumbling end over end with his brother still in it.

  Sam tried to will a new ending to the sequence. But he couldn’t re-write that script, and every damned time, it ended with him kneeling in the muddy grass as Jake, bloody and broken, screamed in agony. Driving rain, sleek and gray in the artificial light of the halogens, poured over them as the brothers’ lives changed forever.

  That one incident became the catalyst for a series of events that seemed hell-bent on destroying his life. It started with the loss of Sam’s college scholarship, and on the heels of that, Jake began his dance with the drug demon. The death tango consumed not just his brother but also Sam’s life with its voracious, insatiable appetite. Just after Jake made his final spin around the dance floor, Sam had to face the devastating loss of his parents, both of whom passed within a few days of each other. Sometimes he felt like the subject of a country western song, where good lives go bad and good people go dead.

  With his scholarship revoked, Sam had to drop out, just two short terms from finishing college, but he and Tracy went through with the wedding anyway. He planned to get a job and save enough to finish at the expensive school, but neither had any idea just how much their lives would change. Two years later, having built up so much anger and rage at what had been lost, Sam drifted from dead-end job to dead-end job.