by D. K. Greene
Suddenly, the second guard joins in. Officers three and four aren’t far behind. Peter finds himself sprawled flat as a pancake beneath them. No less than six hundred pounds of pissed-off corrections press him into the concrete. He can’t get enough air in his lungs to shout that he gives up. He doesn’t have enough breath to tell them they’ve won. He’ll yield because it’s the only thing he knows to do. They have him in their grasp, and he knows deep down they may never let him go.
With this new clarity, things click into place. This whole time, he’s only been going through the motions. Trying to connect with his father without hurting anyone. But Peter isn’t the respectable guy he’s pretended to be. He’s really Henry Roberts, son of The Godless Killer, a man with dark thoughts and a desire to make his own mark on the world.
Peter relaxes, becoming a dead weight that sinks into the floor. Hands grab his shoulders and hoist him to his feet. He opens his eyes and when he focuses on Ollie, he smiles. “I’m going to kill them, Dad. I’ll kill them all.”
A guard grabs Peter around the neck. The ball of uniformed flesh hauls him from the room. Just as he’s being shoved through the door to a private investigation room, his father shouts, “Well, Inspector, I think you’ve made the boy upset!”
Forty-Two
Despite how angry Peter was with Inspector Douglas and his gang of law enforcement buddies, the inspector came through for him. Peter only had to sit in the prison for a few hours. Dougy explained away his outburst and took him into custody long enough to drive him home. Special Agent Jones was in on the rescue, too, driving Peter’s car up from Sheridan so he wouldn’t have to pay to have it towed fifty miles.
After they dropped him off, Peter decided it was time to take stock of his life. He digs the AA phone out of hiding. Turning it over in his hand, he’s curious to see if anyone has left him a message. He presses the button, watching the phone cycle through its bootup sequence. The tiny screen comes to life, but no notifications come through. Peter tosses the phone to the floor and pushes the sting of disappointment from his mind.
Opening a closet, he stares at the mass of toys stacked to the ceiling. How much he has to give away disturbs him. There’s more in the bedroom closet. Under his bed. Behind the sofa. Stuffed behind his entertainment center. In the kitchen cabinets.
“What the hell have I been doing?” he asks aloud.
Peter admits he lost his cool during visitation with his dad. The interviewing officer who’d talked to him warned he shouldn’t say stuff like that if he doesn’t want to live in the prison full-time. Now, at home, he doesn’t know how he let his crazed maniac of a father talk him into all this.
Now, a constant voice rings in his ears. It says he’s just like his father. Peter doesn’t want to be like him. He wants to be good. Patient. In control of himself. He has to stop all this before it goes any further.
He’s not in the business of luring people to their deaths. He’s not cold-blooded. He may not know who he is half the time, but he sure as hell doesn’t have to be the fiend his family history says he could be.
Pulling toys out of the closet, Peter packs them into large, black trash bags. When the closet is empty, he moves to the next room. It’s settled. He’s done connecting with his father. He’s pulling the plug on everything.
Sorting the stash of video games under his bed, Peter’s thoughts are interrupted by the AA phone. He tries to ignore it, but as soon as it sends the call to voicemail, it rings again. The sound is grating. He retrieves the wailing device from where he dropped it earlier.
“Hello?” His greeting is curt. He’s not feeling friendly at the moment.
The girl’s screech smacks him in the side of the face. “Oh... My... GAAAAAAWD! Someone answered! Hello? Alphabet Apes? I got a box that says I’m a winner!”
He turns the volume down on the handset. He frowns as he replies, “That’s great, but...”
“How do I collect my prize? I saved the box. Do I mail part of it to you?” Her teenage voice teeters on the edge of another scream. “I’ve never won anything before.”
Peter looks at the cherry red guitar Jesse held so tenderly when he came to get a prize. He needs to get rid of all this stuff, anyway. It won’t hurt anything to let this girl have her pick of the lot. Maybe if Peter pleases her, the way he made J happy, he can feel good again.
He’d do almost anything to grasp another wisp of cheer.
“The contest ends this week.” His shoulders droop in surrender. “You called just in the nick of time.”
The girl whoops into the phone, which forces Peter to smile. Her voice is excited, and grating when she screeches, “What do I do next?”
His practiced speech takes over. “This Alphabet Apes contest is regional, so we have offices throughout Portland where you can redeem your prize. You bring us the box, we’ll scan it, and see what you’ve won. Please bring a valid, government issued ID, or a parent and their ID if you are under eighteen.”
“I turn eighteen on Friday!” The teenager’s voice jumps an octave.
“Happy early birthday. What’s your name?” Peter digs the small notebook and pen he’s started carrying out of his pants pocket and flips through the pages.
“Lindsey.”
“Let me see which of our offices is closest to you, Lindsey. We can set up the appointment for Friday so you can get your prize on your birthday.” He pulls the phone away from his face when she screeches.
They discuss the details of the meeting and he’s just about to end the call when the line beeps. He pulls the phone away and the screen blinks at him. Answer Call Two?
“Excuse me, Lindsey. I’m sorry to cut this short, but someone’s trying to grab my attention. I’ll see you Friday afternoon. Don’t forget to bring your driver’s license.” Peter doesn’t wait for her response. He hits the button to answer the second call. “Hello, this is Ted from Alphabet Apes. Can I help you?”
Another teenager, a male, is on the line. He sounds almost as excited as Lindsey. Just as Peter jots down his name on the pad, the phone beeps again.
The phone rings nearly non-stop the rest of the evening. Moms, dads, kids, and teens fill Peter’s notebook. Before he knows it, he has appointments booked through the end of the week and into the next, across three locations. He leaves the prizes already stuffed in plastic bags and tries to pack the rest between calls. He feels lighter. Things are turning around.
He’s going to be a prize-wielding hero.
He grins. He doesn’t have to be an awful guy. He can meet people until all the stuff is gone. Then he can go back to work. Maybe he’ll break things off with Jeanne and call Valorie back. He can put everything back to the way it was before he got involved with his dad.
His cell phone, the one that’s contracted in his name for the next eighteen months, starts playing its familiar tune. It hasn’t rung since he left the prison. He imagines it’s Dougy calling to see if he’s settled down enough to come back. Maybe it’s Ollie wanting to apologize. But when he checks the screen, the phone number doesn’t show up. It just keeps ringing.
With equal parts caution and curiosity, he presses the button to answer. “Hello?”
“Heard they gave you a rough time in Sheridan. I have someone who can help.” The creepy voice mumbles these words as if they’re afraid someone might walk in the room.
“I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave me alone.” The voice doesn’t reply. Peter collects his courage and barks, “I’m serious. I don’t need help. I’m not involved with Oliver Roberts anymore, so if you’re trying to get a story out of me, you can just stop.”
There’s a heavy sigh on the line and the voice whispers, “We will be here, if you change your mind. Goodbye, Henry Roberts.”
The call disconnects. Peter considers calling the police. Maybe they can trace the call. He thinks back... he’s heard that voice before. They called when he was with his dad in the hospital. His thumb twitches. He concentrates on making it stop so he
can scroll through his contacts.
“Peter?” Inspector Douglas sounds pleasantly surprised. “Special Agent Jones and I were just talking about you. We were thinking...”
“Dougy, shut up. I’m not coming back. I don’t want to hear whatever you’re about to say. Listen. I’ve got someone prank calling me. It’s happened a couple times. They’re watching me. I think they know about what I’m doing with my dad.” Peter pauses. He hopes Dougy will assume he’s talking about helping Oliver work the cold cases. If the inspector asks about anything else, he’s not sure how he’ll explain it.
“You sure it’s not just some wacky practical joke?”
“Positive. The first call came when I was in the hospital with you and my dad that first day.” Peter blinks hard. He knows what’s coming next.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Inspector Douglas loses the friendly candor. “If your little news lady goes to the press about these cases, so help me Henry, I’ll skin you alive.”
“I didn’t know what to make of it. Things have been weird lately, you know?” Peter looks at the pitted texture of his apartment’s popcorn ceiling and hopes that’ll be enough to get the inspector off his case.
Inspector Douglas’s voice sounds resigned. “Fine. Get me a copy of your phone records. If you can, tell me the timestamps of the calls. I’ll find out what’s going on.”
Peter nods into the phone. “Thanks, Dougy.”
“Anything for you, Henry.”
Forty-Three
Peter’s done such a wonderful job telling contestants to not be late that it looks like everyone has shown up early. The office is so packed with people, they overflow onto the sidewalk outside. Peter knew he’d put a lot of appointments on the calendar, but seeing the bodies crammed into a four-seat lobby differs considerably from looking at a list of names on paper.
“Excuse me,” he says as he weaves through the people. He tries not to drop anything. “Prize guy coming through.” The people cheer. Peter feels like Santa Claus.
He has to make several trips. A pair of wire-limbed teenagers volunteer to help. They do their best to not snoop as they carry bags, but Peter knows the temptation is overwhelming. When they’ve moved the last load into the conference room, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out two twenty-five-dollar Visa gift cards.
“Here.” He hands them to the kids. “Now, tell everyone I need a half-hour to set up. Then we can get this show on the road.”
The teens let out a whoop. They give each other high fives and race down the hallway to deliver the message. Peter stacks prizes, amazing himself at how much quicker the sorting goes this time around. Twenty minutes later he’s got everything laid out, the banner hung, and is booting up his laptop.
He hits the button on the intercom system. A loud stream of chatter leaks into the room. He clears his throat and tells the receptionist he’s ready for the first appointment. The group in the lobby cheers, making the intercom crackle with noise.
Releasing the button, the room falls into silence. He leans back in his chair and smiles. He’s ready to have an unforgettable day.
Forty-Four
The AA phone hasn’t stopped ringing all week. It’s gotten so bad, Peter has to turn it off just to get through his appointments. He dedicates two hours in the evenings to callbacks. The response is suddenly overwhelming.
The exhaustion at the close of the day feels good. He’s excited to wake up in the morning. He can’t wait to see kids’ smiling faces. To experience their parents’ relief. To witness teenagers’ delight in not being told “no”. The experience is exhilarating in ways he can’t describe, dampened only by the stash of gifts that gets smaller with every appointment. He has to get more prizes.
As Peter stands at the sink in his underwear, toothbrush scrubbing along the gum line, he thinks this could be his thing. There’s a guy on the local news who wanders the streets of the city dressed like a homeless person, handing out $100 bills to anyone who offers him lunch or a warm drink. There’s a family who adds another table’s meals to their tab whenever they go out to eat.
Maybe Peter could be an everyday hero. He can be The Prize Guy. Anonymous do-gooder extraordinaire.
He knows he has to go back to work. Eventually the money, and his leave of absence, will run out. But he’d planned on returning to his desk job as soon as he finished touring the country looking for dead people, anyway. Maybe he’ll do the prize thing every time he gets a bonus or pay raise. It’ll be something to celebrate whenever his fortune shifts in a positive direction.
His cheeks ache with the effort of so much smiling, but it’s a pain he doesn’t want to end.
Hauling prizes to his car, Peter’s ready for another day of generosity. He almost loses the trio of boxes he’s carrying when he reaches the parking lot. Inspector Douglas leans against the corner of his building. Peter recovers, taking a deep breath and gripping the boxes tight as he ducks his head behind them to avoid his gaze.
Inspector Douglas flicks his half-finished cigarette to the curb and saunters toward Peter’s car.
Rearranging the stuff in his trunk to get the boxes to fit, Peter refuses to turn around when the inspector touches his shoulder from behind. “What do you want, Dougy?”
His voice is cool. “I know what you’re doing, Henry.”
“For the thousandth time, it’s Peter.” He glances over his shoulder to see the edge of Dougy’s face. “What do you think I’m doing?”
Taking a step back to kick the curb, Inspector Douglas grumbles, “You haven’t answered your phone in a week. You’re avoiding me. Avoiding your father. Hell, you didn’t even call Mac back. You’re giving up. One unpleasant trip to the beach and an interview in the pen and it’s over for you?”
Peter unburies himself from the trunk and faces him. He stands up as tall as he can, but Dougy’s balding head still towers over him. “You think that’s not enough reason to shut you out? Maybe I have a problem finding out my dad drugged me as a kid to get me to shut up. Perhaps I’m sick of your troops crashing my therapy sessions. Or, maybe, it’s possible I’m sick of pretending to be someone I’m not, just so I can keep someone else’s secrets.”
Slamming the trunk lid feels good. He stomps to the apartment and does a quick sweep to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. Inspector Douglas blocks the front door when he tries to exit. “I found out who’s been calling you.”
Legs locking with sudden tension, Peter almost tips over at the announcement. “You did?”
Dougy clears his throat. He looks over his shoulder to the open walkway outside as if he doesn’t want anyone to listen in. A young family spills out of an apartment a few doors down. The parents bicker and their children shriek at one another. The inspector closes the door and turns the lock.
He takes a step closer and speaks with a gloomy tone. “There’s a group dedicated to your father.”
“What?” Peter blinks.
The inspector’s face squirms as the words fight to leave his mouth. “Your dad’s amassed a bit of a fan club.”
Staring, Peter doesn’t quite understand what he’s hearing. Dougy may as well have said the Yankees were heading to the Super Bowl. “The hell he has.”
“Let’s sit down for a while. I can tell you about it over some coffee. This isn’t really something we can rush through.” Dougy takes another step closer.
Peter shakes his head twice. “I have an appointment.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, the inspector frowns. “Those boxes you were carrying... you aren’t moving, are you?”
“I’m not allowed to move without notifying my caseworker.” Peter pulls his keys out and reaches around his uninvited guest to open the door. He gestures outside, insisting they get a move on. Once both of them stand outside, he locks the door and walks back to the car. He pulls the driver’s door handle. Dougy presses on it, keeping it from swinging open. “I’m late. I really have to go.”
Moving his hand away from the door, Ins
pector Douglas grabs Peter by the elbow. Inches from his face, Peter notices how the inspector’s skin has paled. He can’t tell if Dougy will drag him off, or throw up.
“These people worship your dad like he’s some messiah come to cleanse the world. They’re everywhere, apparently, following everything we’re doing. They’d even gotten a member in the prison. A corrections officer. He was acting as a go-between, recruiting members.”
The scowl on Peter’s face makes his jaw ache. “Did you arrest him?”
Inspector Douglas nods in confirmation.
“Good. Now, I’ve got to go. Someone’s waiting for me.” Peter pulls his arm loose and gets in the car. He turns the motor over, glimpsing the inspector in the mirror as he puts the vehicle in gear.
Dougy has moved back to the sidewalk. His frustrated grimace is only visible for a moment as he presses a fresh cigarette to his lips. Lighter in hand, he turns his back on Peter.
Forty-Five
Peter’s last appointment of the day is with a man named Glen. The excited conversations he’s had the last couple weeks all blend together in a rainbow of excitement. All of them, except one. Peter vividly remembers his phone call with this man. Glen is pushy.
When they’d talked, Glen had demanded Peter mail his prize instead of making him travel across town to pick it up. He’d hung up when Peter told him mail wasn’t an option. Minutes later, the jerk called back to book an appointment.
There’s a buzz of emotion as Peter waits for each winner to enter the room. Glen’s arrival makes his stomach swirl in a much less pleasant way. He jumps when the intercom buzzer sounds. He has to force himself to press the button to answer it.
“Mister Willard, your four-thirty is here.”
“Send him up.” Peter arranges the prizes while he waits. Something about this guy makes him nervous. He makes sure his badge is level and straightens the stack of business cards beside the laptop. The door swings open and Peter’s breath catches in his chest.
