Housebroken

by The Behrg

  8

  Blake lowered his foot, blindly searching for an alcove or ledge, a rock jutting from the cliff face. He found it, something upon which his toes landed, the ball of his foot stretching over the cold, sharp stone. He allowed his weight to shift, testing the foothold. So far, so good.

  Hanging on to the coral rock at the cliff’s edge with his left hand, he brought his right down, grabbing a shallow crevice that made for an excellent handhold. He’d be able to follow it down a ways. He pulled against it, making sure it was as solid as it looked. With a deep breath he let go of the rock at the top, allowing his body to drop over the ledge.

  The breeze transformed into violent gales around him, thrashing, pushing, and pulling in a malevolent desire to tear him from the cliff’s face. The moment passed, the winds drawing back, content to observe his inevitable fall with or without their assistance.

  What little light remained in the skies was slipping behind the inkblot that was night. Blake continued his way down, one harried step at a time. Twice his footholds gave out, his body flinging from the cliff, kept from falling only by his tightening grip on whatever rock or crevice his hand was wrapped around. When he finally leapt the last few feet down, his feet and pants were submerged in water, then the tide rolled back in.

  A wave crashed against him, barreling into his back and sending him staggering toward the canyon wall. Before he had a chance to regain his balance, another wave toppled into him. He lost his footing, going down. He snagged onto a rock formation in time to barely avoid that pull from sucking him back out.

  “Bwakey! Bwakey!”

  He heard Joje’s frantic yells over the assault of another wave. The sprawling climb looked more daunting than he would have thought possible. Whatever else Joje was trying to communicate was lost as another wave dashed itself against the rocks. He started making his way along the canyon wall.

  As his toes and bare feet slammed into fallen rocks and boulders, Blake asked himself why they hadn’t picked a house in Malibu where there were actually beaches. With sand and a shoreline and life guards sitting in towers spotting missing children who happened to wander by. Privacy came at such a high cost.

  Despite his pounding heart and a level of activity Blake hadn’t sustained in years, he was shivering. The water felt fifty degrees or colder; add the chill of the wind, and he’d only have so much time before his body went rigid and numb. He continued on, walking through water when he could, swimming when he couldn’t.

  “Adam! Adam!”

  He yelled though he knew his words would be lost against the backdrop of tossing water. He had to be getting close. He had to be.

  And then he saw him.

  His son.

  Or rather his body.

  Slipping beneath the undertow of a forming wave, Adam floated facedown in the water. Blake lost sight of him, the torrid water thrashing and falling. Adam’s body bobbed back up only to submerge once more.

  “No!” Blake screamed, flinging himself from the wall and diving into an oncoming wave. It hammered into him, forcing him to the ground and sending his feet flailing over his head. He launched back up, gasping and lunging toward where he had seen Adam last. Another wave fell, propelling him back toward the canyon wall.

  “Adam!”

  His son wasn’t there.

  Another wave hit. Blake wiped the stinging water from his eyes. Where was he?

  Floating on top of a cresting wave was the driftwood Blake had mistaken for his son. A waterlogged branch as thick as Blake’s thigh tumbled beneath a wave, flecks of wood churning and gathering back on the surface.

  His tears mixed with the salty water on his face. Up above he caught no sign of Joje. More than likely he was tripping over roots and vines as the landscape changed from sand-covered rock to tree-spotted forest. If Blake was in any real luck, Joje would lose his balance and tumble right over.

  A wave caught him by surprise, immersing him completely. As he drew back up out of the water, he heard the squawk of seagulls. He jumped into another wave, letting the water carry him up and back into the jutting canyon wall.

  “Dad! Dad!”

  It was Adam.

  Blake heard his son’s cry, and exhaustion left as quickly as the tide pulling away. It would be back, Blake had no doubt, but he could handle another wave.

  “Adam!” He searched, squinting in the waning light and following the coast that continued like a drunkard’s walk.

  “Dad! . . . Help!”

  Rushing water forced Blake back against the wall. He let it carry him, turning to grasp the edge of an alcove and lift himself up. He needed to be higher; he needed to be able to see.

  “Bwake!” The voice came from above. Blake glanced up at Joje, who must have been kneeling at the edge of the cliff, his body hanging halfway over the lip. Joje pointed out toward the water, not the coastline. “There! Out there!”

  Blake’s eyes probed against the dark skyline and murky waters. And then he saw it—a rock outcropping that barely rose above the surface of the water as if standing on its tippy toes, gasping for air. The silhouette of a body clung to it. The shape of a boy.

  His boy.

  Without hesitation, Blake dove into the oncoming wave. It swept him right back to the base of the cliff. He kicked off, swimming lower when another wave burrowed down, flipping him over with its crushing force and flattening him against the floor of the sea. He reached the top of the surface in time to catch half a breath before the next wave struck. His limbs wrenched around in a half circle as he was brought back to the alcove he had seconds ago left. Blake reached up, hanging on as he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath.

  “Bwake!” Joje was yelling at him from above, but Blake gave him no heed. He had to get his son.

  He waited for the water to start drawing back before he dove in, swimming with all his might. The wave that met him was like a garbage truck sweeping aside a fly. Blake broke back into the water, thrashing against its pull, thrashing, but not gaining. He topped one wave’s crest only to be met by a secondary rise that carried him right back to the canyon wall. The alcove was now to his left, his panicked attempts at swimming moving him farther down the coastline—farther away from his son.

  Blake’s chest was heaving. He was no longer cold, he was sweating, and his body ached with a deepness he recognized as something much more dangerous than exhaustion. He was closing on the brink of utter fatigue.

  A rope suddenly caught around his neck, and he was transported back into that truck, the purse strap cinching off his airway, throat bulging, burning. He grappled with it, coming away with a tangle of seaweed that had wrapped itself around him. He threw it, or did his best to, the long strand barely moving a few feet, already gliding back toward him.

  He thought he heard his son calling his name.

  “I’m coming!” he cried, then plummeted back into the water. This would be his last attempt—not a matter of choice, just an undeniable fact.

  He broke over the first wave, his arms carrying his body past just as the rise began to fall. Gulping a half breath of air, he lowered himself, gliding beneath the next rush while still being swept back. He swam, the air in his lungs burning, legs kicking, arms cutting. At last he resurfaced, stopping a moment to get his bearings. A wave began forming just past him, crest rising quickly before burying itself into the mountain’s edge.

  He had made it.

  The island of rock was barely visible above the water. Slowly he swam toward it. He thought he heard hooting and applause coming from above. Angels rejoicing or an orange-haired devil responding to its lengthened stay.

  Blake swam on.

  The rock was smaller than he had thought and slippery, his hands sliding off until a better purchase was had. Adam held on to the other side, knuckles and hands white against the dark rock. Blake took hold of his son, clinging to him, hugging him, kissing the top of his wet, greasy hair. Adam, for once, didn’t seem to mind.

  “You came!” he said
.

  “I did,” Blake said between heavy breaths. “I always will.”

  The water tugged, a taut force ripping at Blake, trying to separate him from his son. Despite the pull, he refused to let go.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I thought—I thought I could swim around to get away.”

  “Shhh, it’s okay,” Blake said, ignoring the lie.

  “Did you kill him? Joje?”

  “No. No, he’s . . . here. Up above.” Blake pointed to the cliffs behind them. They looked so high from down here. Insurmountable. Adam’s body was shivering, teeth chattering. They needed to get out of this water and soon.

  “I thought you were dead,” Adam said.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re safe. That’s all I care about.”

  And with the words, Blake felt the crushing blow of Adam’s choice. His son could have gone to the cops, could have run away. Instead he came out here seeking a more permanent escape.

  “Can you swim?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Adam said.

  “Okay. Follow me to the cliffs. From there we’ll circle around, find a way up.”

  Adam’s face was pallid.

  “You can do this! I know you can. The water will carry you. I’ll be right behind. I won’t let you out of my sight.”

  Adam nodded. As if on command, a gust of wind blew into them. Blake couldn’t feel his fingers or toes. He glanced up at the top of the cliff, trying to spot an eager Joje. Whether he was there or not, Blake couldn’t tell.

  They pushed off. The pull of the water carried them farther from the alcove Blake had hoped to swim to, but both he and Adam made it to the cliffs without incident. Just meant more ground they would need to retrace. The waves now crashing against the walls were violent, blinding in their ferocity. Blake had Adam lead as they began the slow path around the curve of the cliffs, buffeted by the assaulting waves. They were both shivering now.

  Adam continued to glance back, making sure his father was behind him. The travel was slow, clinging to rocks and earth as the waves struck, racing the few steps they could manage when the ocean inhaled. At one point dirt and loose rocks fell from above, Blake reminded of Joje’s looming presence. Weariness circled him like a whirlpool almost pulling him into its dark abyss.

  They made it back to where Blake had descended; at least he thought it was the spot. From their vantage point he had no idea how he had made it down in one piece. Joje knelt above, calling down to them, though his words were lost with the noise of the ocean in their ears.

  “This is where I came down,” Blake said, studying the cliff side.

  “And you made it without falling?”

  Blake laughed, an expression that felt oddly foreign.

  “Keep going,” Adam said. “There’s an easier path where the canyons meet. Someone set up a rope.”

  Of course. Blake looked up at Joje and pointed his arm in the direction they were traveling. Hopefully, he’d understand they had to continue. They passed beneath the moonlit shadows of massive mansions hidden behind a wall of earth until arriving at the area Adam had described. It did look like two canyons meeting, one cliff falling away into its jutting brother, creating a tiny slot canyon too narrow for a person to crawl through. But it did allow for an easy path down and back up, especially with the gnarled rope hanging over the lip of the first drop less than ten feet above.

  “It’s where the surfers come down,” Adam said.

  Blake nodded. He should have known there would have been an easier way. Adam reached up, grabbed the end of the rope, and used it to scramble up the side of the cliff, walking almost perpendicular to the mountain. He pushed himself over the edge, then swung the rope back out.

  It took Blake much longer to climb the same distance, his exhaustion no longer at arm’s length. Adam took his hand, helping him with the final push up and over the edge. Blake collapsed into his son, his breathing as ragged as when he had been sucking in gasoline. At least that smell had been washed away.

  “Where’s Joje?” Adam asked.

  “Shhh,” Blake said, closing his eyes and resting his head against his son.

  “We should go, now, before he gets here!”

  “Okay.” Blake’s eyes wouldn’t open, his breathing slowing. He thought Adam was speaking again, but before syllables could register as words, he was out, the systematic crashing of waves in his ear the sleeping pill he had been missing for the past several days.

  9

  The glass shard in Jenna’s hand rattled against her wedding ring, making a clink, clink, clink sound as if someone were preparing to give a toast. Or a eulogy. Wood fractured around the handle of the door with another thud.

  Please, God, Jenna thought, let it be quick.

  With a harrowing thump the door burst in, a long side board from Adam’s bed continuing through like a battering ram. It hit into the sink, turning up into the mirror, which cracked, splintering into smaller, distorted views. She lifted her arms to keep the board from landing on her legs, and then Drew was there, grabbing her hands and yanking her forward. The glass shard dropped to the floor.

  He dragged her from the tiny bathroom into the family room, her legs like logs trolling behind her. The pain was beyond anything she could have imagined.

  Drew rolled part of the rug back so that her back was pressed to the hard floor. Jenna’s shrill cries bounced off the walls unheeded. Forcing her hands down and pinning them to the floor, Drew jumped atop her, his weight crushing into her.

  “This is the place, the exact spot. The husband was there,” he pointed with his head, “watching the entire time while we raped his daughter and wife over and over. Joje told them we’d stop if they could be quiet.” Drew’s fat lips spread in a grin, his breath reeking. “Eventually they got real quiet.”

  Jenna’s eyes brimmed with tears, her vision blurring.

  “Blake’s not here, but maybe the doctor could watch? What do you say, Doc?” He looked up at the old man tied to the chair. “Did you piss yourself? Joje isn’t gonna like that.”

  “You’ve done this before?” Jenna asked, more a statement than a question.

  “Yeah, we’ve done this before. Now I sorta have a thing, see. I don’t like the smell of a woman’s goody bag. You all reek. It’s in you and on you, but you take the bath, I make this as painless as possible. Maybe even forget you locked me out.”

  “I knew,” Jenna said. “From the first day you arrived, I knew why you were here. What you were after.”

  “You don’t have a clue what we’re after.”

  “I hope Adam didn’t go to the cops,” she said.

  “Why’s that.”

  “Because I want the pleasure of killing you myself.”

  “The hard way it is,” Drew said.

  He hopped back up, grabbing her by the feet. Jenna floated in and out of consciousness as he hauled her back to the bathroom. She vaguely remembered clawing at the end table, lamp tipping, magazines spilling to the floor.

  Drew ripped at her shirt, pulling it over her head. It got caught in her hair; he just yanked harder. His finger ran down her face, trailing the lines of her neck, cupping her breasts beneath the sports bra. She felt ill, the pain so intense she might throw up.

  “My pills . . . ,” she managed to get out.

  “Here.” He unscrewed the cap, tipping the bottle. The white tablets poured not into her hands but into the toilet. He opened a second jar, shaking them out at a trickle at first, then dumping them with the first. Two more bottles followed, hundreds of pills floating in the round bowl before her like drowning maggots.

  “Care to bob for apples?” Drew asked.

  Sadly, had Jenna been able to move closer to the toilet, she might have done just that. With an exaggerated motion he flushed them down, the noise of that water spinning like a jackhammer in her skull.

  “You’re going to feel everything from here on out,” he said. “Starting with your bath. And instead of just a soak, I think your legs need a good scrub.�
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  Jenna’s hands searched the floor around her, finding only slivers of glass.

  A shudder suddenly broke through the house, vibrating against the wall of the bathroom. It was the garage door rising. They were home!

  Drew slipped from the bathroom without a word. When he came back in, he was holding the sword. He brought its tip an inch from her face. “One word about any of this, and I cut out your eye. Do you believe me?”

  She did.

  “Goes for you too, Doc,” he yelled out the bathroom door. His bandaged hand reached down, lifting her face toward his. “To be continued.”.

  Jenna had faced her share of monsters in her life, her father, bad boyfriends, and the oily darkness that swam around her, circling even when things were going right. Yet none had prepared her for this. Regardless of who came through that garage door, she knew if she was ever alone with Drew again, she would be finished.

  Chapter Six

  Day Five

  1

  Blake lay in his bed, alone. It was an odd sensation, the unruffled bedspread and sheets beside him a stark reminder of pre-California days when he had retired to bed without knowing if or when Jenna would come in. Blake had no context to determine whether Joje’s absence was a good or bad thing.

  He decided on bad.

  The pulsing in his head made thoughts difficult to piece together, every muscle twanging with the slightest movement. His body was telling him what he already knew.

  Enough.

  We give.

  Uncle.

  At least Adam was safe; but no, Blake knew even that wasn’t true. When playing Russian roulette, you don’t relax when the gun clicks instead of fires. Especially when you’re the only one playing.

  Guilt threatened to tip him over an edge and into an abyss with no end, an edge he couldn’t afford to look over. Not now.

  Jenna’s already there, he thought, or thought he thought. It was so difficult to tell which were his own. He should join her. He knew who was there with her, the reason Jenna had descended to such depths and stayed for so long.