Just after daylight she heard vehicle doors opening and closing in the driveway. She ran to her small window and looked out. Craning her head far to the left, she could look back over to the right. There were the women—girls, really—being loaded into two white vans that said something about carpet cleaning along their sides. Identical signage. Then the vans backed out, turned to the left, and were gone. Just like that.
Danny opened her door and crept down to the bathroom she had been told to use. She switched on the light and found drawers open in the vanity, water spilled everywhere on the floor, and feces floating in her toilet. The toilet was overflowing and small pieces of feces floated onto the floor bit by bit. Danny recoiled but it was too late. Her feet were in it and there was no backing out, not without tracking it on the hallway carpet.
Which was when she heard Jana's voice behind. She turned and found him holding a plumber's helper. He extended it to her.
"Clean it up in there," he said, expressionless.
"What happened?" she murmured. "Who was here?"
"That would be none of your concern, my flower," he said with a smile. "Just some people passing through."
"It was girls."
"Yes, there were girls here."
"But there was crying."
A stolid look crossed his face. He was scowling. "How much did you hear?"
"Crying, words I didn't understand. A foreign language."
"Yes, these were some guests passing through. I'm sorry to leave you with this mess in the bathroom but they were in a hurry not to be late at the airport."
She didn't tell him what she had done upon hearing their cries. Instead she acted as if nothing had happened.
"Where were they going?"
"My, aren't we the inquisitive little toadstool this morning?"
She looked at him blankly. "So which am I, flower or toadstool?"
He only looked at her. Evidently the irony didn't register. His eyes said he was far away, not really thinking about her. So she dropped it.
"I'll get this cleaned up," she said. "But then I want to get out of the house."
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know. To a restaurant for breakfast."
"We can do that. Whatever you want, my love."
"I want breakfast. Outside, at a restaurant."
She wanted to get to a restaurant and see if she could get alone and pass a message. Pass a message to someone—anyone—who might be willing to help her.
"We'll go to Armand's Grille just as soon as you're finished in here. Take a shower when you're done with cleanup and we'll go."
"All right."
36
Danny
My left armpit is exposed to the water and the Gillette. This makes shaving the underarm stubble so much faster, I've learned these last few months. Truth be told, however, I am still searching for the rationale for shaving the armpits; it isn't good science since, if nature has placed hair there, she must have a reason. I note—happily—that more and more I am becoming someone who thinks for herself more than I follow the strictures of others. Blindly following anyone leads to the slaughter house, I've decided. I am increasingly happy becoming my own woman. In fact, at times like this, I even forget where I am for a few moments and rather enjoy the sensation of just being alive and having memories of yesterday, the past week, and even last month. "It's the little things," I mutter into the water.
I turn to do the other arm. Which is when I notice a shadow outside the glass doors of the shower. A shadowy figure. Someone is actually standing there—Jana, I'm quite sure. I cross my arms and turn my back to the intruder. Then I think better of leaving myself totally unguarded and helpless and turn back around. As I do this, the shower door slides open. He stands there, a lump of ambiguity.
Through the steamy air his face coalesces before my eyes.
Jana. Staring at me. Nodding his head. Not smiling, not anything.
"Just like I remembered," he says, his voice guttural with lust.
"Please, just leave!" I say sharply. "I don't like this at all."
"But you're my wife. Husbands see their wives nude all the time, Danny. It's a kind of right that a husband has. You'll also be seeing me in the nude, too. That's your right."
"I don't want to see you nude. I want to see you dressed and acting nice. Not like this!'
"Well, if you must know, I'm ready to take you to Armand's Grille. I've called ahead and made lunch reservations. I was just coming in to tell you."
"You've told me. Now leave, please."
He selects that exact moment to suddenly thrust his hand through the steam and grope my breasts. It is totally unexpected and for a moment I honestly have no idea how to react. But then my nature takes over and I recoil, jumping back and slamming against the tile of the shower wall. But he doesn't relent. In fact, he comes closer and raises his other hand, contributing another member for me to fight off.
"Whoa," he says with a mean laugh, "I must not have told you. Feeling up your wife—that's another right that husbands have. Please don't fight me, Danny. It will happen over and over, beautiful as you are."
With that, he takes a step back and suddenly unzips his jeans, exposing himself to me. I raise my eyes to the ceiling, refusing to pleasure him by looking at his penis.
Then he's stroking himself slowly up, slowly down, working his flaccid penis into an erect little arm with clenched fist—my impression. I can't avert my eyes any longer when a glimpse suddenly catches my attention: the man has no testicles! He has nothing down there where the sac would ordinarily hang down. How do I know this? Hospital rehab people taught me with charts and pictures. Everything was reviewed over the months I was a patient, including human anatomy and reproductive information. It was all a part of the hospital's head injury protocol in cases like mine.
Now I watch how he strokes and teases himself to a passable erection.
"Where are your testicles?" I blurt out. "You're missing a sack!” I have seen this before. But I didn't say anything. Now I'm angry and make it a point.
"My testicles were flushed down a disposal sluice at the prison where I was spending my youth, thanks to you. Flushed away, Danny!”
"Flushed down a sluice? But why?"
"A very bad man relieved me of my testicles. A man named Randall Fox. Alas, Mr. Fox no longer walks the earth, preying on young boys such as I. Now he's been flushed down the sluice as well. Or should I say he disappeared up the chimney in a twist of smoke? That's probably closer to the truth."
I am repelled by it all—his masturbation is revolting, his story about Fox, the sight of his sack-less groin—I feel nothing but repulsion.
"I'm begging you, Jay. Please leave now."
"That's another thing, wife of mine. My real name is Jana. Now get used to it and start calling me by my real name."
A moment of clarity crosses my mind even in the midst of his assault.
"What is my real name, then?" I ask.
"Your name is Danny!" he exclaims. "Why would you even ask?"
"What if I think my name is something else. Something like Dania."
He suddenly shudders and moves his hand away from his penis.
"Where did you get that idea!" he thunders.
"I—I don't know."
"Oh, yes, you do. You've been on my computer! Tell me what it is you've found or so help me I'll beat you down right now!"
"It's—it's a book—a letter about Dania."
"Then tell me where it is!"
I couldn't. I dared not, because I have hidden a knife right alongside the book. If he finds the knife he will probably use it on me. I am sure of it.
"It was a letter I found. When I was cleaning the bathroom I found a letter in the drawer with all the washcloths. Underneath."
"Show it to me, Danny. Right now, show it to me!"
"I can't. I tore it up and flushed it away. I was afraid you would think I wrote it. But I didn't." I have worked myself to tears and am crying
now out of fear but also out of an unrealized sorrow I feel for the woman who wrote the diary. That woman being my former self. Or so I believe.
"You lie with such ease," Jana says, coming closer now. He isn't in my face, threatening me with his hands, but his tone and face are menacing and capable of a cruelty I didn't know was possible. I turn away and suddenly feel his hand shoot out and run sideways up between my butt cheeks. With his other hand he pins me against the wall. He easily forces his fingers up inside my vagina and leaves them there.
"You'd better not be lying to me," he says in a hoarse whisper. "If you are, I'm going to cut this out of you and feed it to the garbage disposal. Just like the prison did to me."
With that, he suddenly withdraws his hand and steps away. I can feel the door open and close with a sudden rush of cold air and then I am alone, my face against the tile wall, sobbing.
"I hate you!" I wail. They taught me about hate, but I hadn't understood what it could feel like.
But now I feel it through and through.
He leaves me feeling dirty and invaded. It feels like unwanted fingers prying their way into my vagina and insulting me by totally ignoring that I am real and have feelings. Hate violates the spirit just like the fingers violate the body.
Now, what to do with the rage that hate is producing in me?
I think of the knife. I imagine it piercing Jana's rib cage, finding its way into his heart.
It is only fair.
37
Danny
I can hear them arguing.
"She's outlived her usefulness," Jana asserts. His voice is angry but measured. I get the feeling he doesn't attack Niles as fiercely as he feels he can attack the weaker ones like me.
"She's useful to us," Niles says. "We can use her for other parts in the films."
"Not worth the risk," says my husband. "She's read something and knows her real name. Where does she go from there except wanting more? Now I have to watch her every minute. I'm no hawk but she's making me into one."
A war is raging for my soul. I feel lonely and very sad.
“The MILF distributors want a new face," says Jana. "And a new body. What is she now, forty-five? The arms are starting to sag anyway, if you've been watching her last two movies. Total turnoff even to the guys who like the MILFS."
"I don't know," says Niles. "I think a little loose skin is part of the attraction for the freaks. They're looking for the real thing and she's certainly that."
Real thing am I? If they only knew how real I am compared to them. I don't tell them that, of course. I am seeing things up close and in focus like never before. Integration of the people in our lives, Dr. Thomas always preached at the hospital. We must integrate or we're forever shattered, reflecting the world like so many points of broken glass instead of presenting an integrated whole picture of ourselves. That, ladies and gentlemen, he would tell our little group, is the definition of chaos. And nobody wants to live in chaos. So integrate, people! Integrate!
"I'm ready to kill the bitch," Jana says.
I feel like I've been kicked in the gut. Kill me? Did he really just say that?
I can feel Gunnar. He is coming and he is angry.
I decide Gunnar can have his way.
38
Ilene
The actuarial game fit Ilene Morrison just perfectly. She loved to take her insureds' money and bet they would outlive their life insurance policies. It just fit her nature and everyday made her happy to be a Grand American Republican insurance agent. GAR was the go-to purveyor of life insurance policies for the Midwest and Jana Emerich was a key customer, Ilene acknowledged as she scanned her calendar of that day's appointments. 10 a.m. She would be ready.
He arrived wearing stained khakis, running shoes, a white T-shirt, and a windbreaker. Most likely three days had passed since he last interacted with a razor blade and his eyes held the bloodshot, sallow look of someone who was staying up late and drinking too much. But Ilene ignored all this because, first, it was none of her business, and second, his money spent as well as anyone else's when it came time to make his payments on his life insurance policy.
The policy was on his wife, Ilene had confirmed while waiting for him to help himself to the coffee carafe on her desk. He poured slowly and she noticed a shakiness in his grip but thought nothing of it.
"So how can I help you, Jana?" she asked in her insurance agent singsong.
"I'm here about the policy I have on my wife, Dania."
"You're not wanting to cancel, I hope."
"Nope, I want to find out what we need to do to raise her policy limits from one million to five million."
"Has her physical condition changed since her last physical?"
He spread his hands and said, "Not in the least. In fact, she's healthier now than ever."
"Well, then I'm sure it won't be a problem. Most likely GAR will send a nurse out to take vitals and perform a mini-physical, but that won't take but a half hour of her time."
"When can we get that done?"
"Let me check Kathy's schedule. Wait one."
"Wait. She's the nurse who came last time?"
"Yes."
"Please send someone else. Kathy was rude and my wife didn't appreciate it."
"Really?" said the agent. "Our Kathy? Goodness, I've never heard that before. But we can send someone else. Let's see here—"—scanning her screen—"Emily Diebold can come at two Friday. Does that work?"
"Sure. Dania's home all day."
"Consider it done, then. You're all set. When we get the all clear on the physical the new policy limits will go into effect."
"How long does that take?"
"Ten days, max."
He didn't like the wait but he didn't say so to Ilene. He wanted nothing memorable about his visit, nothing out of the ordinary.
"Let's do it," he said.
So they parted company and by Friday afternoon Jana had tutored Danny in the where's and why's of her being examined by Emily Diebold.
"So we're using my real name of Dania?"
"Yes. You'll answer to Dania from here on."
"Why did you tell the hospital I was Danny?"
"Because hospitals report hospitalizations to insurance companies. I didn't want your life insurance company to know you'd been in an accident. I didn't want them to know you'd been in the hospital for all that time."
"Why not?" said Danny, becoming more and more upset.
"Because they cancel insurance policies if they know too much. You have a policy on my life that pays you if I die. I have a policy on you in case you get hit by a truck. Husbands and wives always do this."
"How much will I get if you die?" she asked, toning it down a notch.
"One million dollars."
"And how much do you get if I get hit by a truck?"
"The same. One million."
"Oh. Well that sounds fair, then."
The insurance physical exam was scheduled for Jana’s house.
Later that afternoon, the examination went without a hitch. Vitals were taken, measurements and weight recorded, and the standard insurance policy questions were asked: no smoking, no airplane piloting, no drinking and driving, no using illegal drugs, and so forth. Emily the nurse smiled at husband and wife when it was over.
"How did I do?" Danny asked.
"Passed with flying colors," Emily said as she packed up her stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. "You should get written notice of the policy increase in about ten days."
It slowly dawned on Danny what that meant. Jana was increasing the amount of insurance money he would receive if she died! She found herself growing dizzy as her pulse pounded and her heart raced. But she managed to maintain a calm exterior. It was important she not let on that she understood what he was doing.
Jana showed Emily to the front door and let her out. Danny was close behind but Jana made sure—as always—to position himself in such a way that she was blocked from suddenly doing an end-run around him an
d escaping out into the street. She had envisioned doing that very thing but hadn't, primarily because he scared the hell out of her with his violence that seemed willing to do anything to her. So she nodded and smiled and told Emily goodbye.
Jana turned to her. "You did so well. You even answered to Dania like I asked."
"So treat me to dinner." she said. Her pulse rate was slowly coming back down as she began making her own plans. She remembered the knife in her room. She considered the one million dollars she would receive if he died.
And she would have her freedom.
Along with many others.
39
Tingo
After finding Emerich's house empty and vacated and the residents long gone, Tingo and Carr hit the streets. Informants were braced and hit with questions. Then the focus shifted to the girls and boys of the streets. Photographs of Emerich were shown all around. Who was this man? they were asked. At last there was a girl who broke down crying immediately upon seeing the photos. She wouldn't talk but she couldn't stop weeping, either. Tingo and Carr took her into their police vehicle, gave her hot coffee, and continued with their questions.
She was sixteen years old, she said, and had come to the U.S. from Vietnam. How had she made her way from Southeast Asia to the U.S.? Men had scooped her off the streets of Hanoi in her home country where she had turned to selling herself to survive. In return she was given a bare room where she could crash and enough food to sustain life. Things would be glorious in the U.S., the men promised her. She hadn't wanted to leave but the men forced her into a van and then she woke up from a drugged sleep, aboard a Finnish freighter bound for San Francisco. There were fifteen other girls just like her on board that trip. Her name was Ling Tzu.
"Can you stop crying now?" Tingo asked gently. He reached across the back seat and gently massaged the back of the girl's neck. She hadn't been touched gently in so long that she immediately melted beneath his touch and stopped weeping.
Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series) Page 15
