by Stanley Gray
Delilah got up. She retreated into the kitchen. Doors slammed and containers crashed together as she immersed herself in busywork to try to distract herself from whatever it was gnawing at her insides. Fear is a parasite. It fed on her, exploiting her lifeforce so that it could continue its vile existence.
Mike punched Tom in the back. He got up and went into the kitchen, and began talking softly to her. The duo left the room, going upstairs without consulting Tom.
Tom sat in silence. He frowned. He looked around, becoming increasingly aware of his isolation with each new second that ticked past. He looked up towards the balustrade. Turning, he glanced into the kitchen. Getting up, he meandered over, putting a large box of cereal with a cute bunny on the front back into the cupboard. A few dishes sat in the sink, and he rinsed them, placing them softly, trying his best not to make any unnecessary noise, into the nearby dishwasher. He heard them walking around upstairs. It sounded as if one of them were pacing back and forth.
Returning to the couch, Tom turned on the television. Suddenly, an errant thought broke into his mind. His heart began its staccato race towards the heavens that now seemed so eerily familiar. Standing, he looked towards the upstairs bedroom, then glanced away. Maybe he just wanted to go up there to insert himself in whatever drama it was that he had helped create. Tom couldn’t say. But he knew that he needed to take care of the problem. He chided himself for not being smart enough to do so earlier. Much, much earlier.
Walking up the spiraling stairs, he tried to be quiet. Part of him hoped that they would go into the bathroom or something, so that he could avoid their wrath and accusing silence. But, he proceeded, timidly. Sometimes one had to do the thing.
His phone. Tom had realized, quite belatedly, that his phone remained on and in the house. The police knew his phone number. They had to, at this point. If the local news media was already posted outside his house and canvassing his residential neighborhood, the police had to have access to the most basic of his personal information. As he took each ginger step on his uphill trek into the danger zone, he tried to think of where he had shared the number. Locally, he hadn’t done much in the way of sharing information or making contacts. It seemed like they’d had some basic plan to get him from the beginning, because he had only barely just arrived in town before becoming an international fugitive accused of mass murder.
Tom stopped. He heard voices. He gripped the bannister and waited. The sound died down. He peeked around the corner, leaning a little to the left, and saw that the bedroom door was closed. “Shit.” he said, under his breath. That was just going to make things more awkward. Not only did he have to go up there, now he had to knock on the door before entering, too. He could only laugh. His fate.
Shaking his head, he summoned his resolve. Tom needed to just get this over with. It wasn’t going to be any easier if he tried to dance around it for an hour. He took the remaining steps with his usual pace and got to the door in a few seconds. He paused there, hand raised and hovering just above the surface. Gritting his teeth, he knocked.
“What do you want?” Mike asked. The words seemed to come out in an angry hiss.
“Can you grab my phone from the nightstand?” he asked.
“Why don’t you just come in here and get it. Face the music, asshole.” Mike said.
Tom sighed. He hesitated. He tried to take a few deep breaths and center himself. But, he suspected nothing could fully prepare him for the raw impact and blunt force trauma her emotional reaction would impose on his senses. Pushing open the door, he shuffled in, trying to keep his eyes down as he navigated his way towards the bedside table. But, Mike impeded his progress. Standing directly in front of him.
“Oh. Hey. Did you maybe want to look up? Go ahead. Do it?” Mike reached out, surprising Tom. He took hold of the former newspaper journalist’s head and turned it towards Delilah. “Go ahead. Look. See how you made her feel, you piece of shit?” he asked.
“Mike, man, chill out.” Tom said. He stepped back and freed himself from the treacly grip of the painter.
“Oh. Chill out? CHILL OUT?” Mike asked. He got up in Tom’s face, his eyes red and wild. The painter jabbed Tom in the chest with an aggressive index finger. “I suppose maybe you should just chill out. Did we ask you come barging into our pity party?” he asked.
“No. I really just want to turn my phone off so the police can’t track me here.” Tom said.
“How come you didn’t think of that yesterday, you freakin’ genius?” Mike asked. Specks of spittle flew out of his mouth as he spoke.
“Hey. Mike. Please? Just let him. Okay?” Delilah said. She looked at Tom. Tears streaked down her plump cheeks. Her makeup had run. “That actually makes sense. He shouldn’t have his phone on. We need to go dump it somewhere.” she said.
Mike gave him a long, nasty look before he backed up and sat down on the bed next to Delilah.
Tom stared at them. His entire body trembled. He experienced… a bevy of emotions. Predominantly confusion. He possessed no paradigm for this. For any of this. He had never felt so lost and out-of-control in his entire life. All of a sudden, after many, many years of near-ceaseless grinding, he was catapulted into ennui, while on the run for crimes he didn’t commit, with a woman he’d developed some sort of intimate relationship with, and a friend he barely knew. “I’m just a newspaper writer, guys. I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. I smoked a marijuana cigarette once in college. I’ve… I’m sorry.” Tom said.
He collapsed onto the bed without asking.
Mike fixed his hostile stare on him, but the stance softened when the painter realized the emotional display from Tom had been genuine.
Delilah moved on the bed, and they both watched her. She shifted over to Tom’s presumed side of the large, comfortable bed, and snatched up the phone. She took the protective case off of it, then the thin metal back. Pulling the square sim card from the device, she marched over to the bathroom, where they both heard the window protest as she forced it open. She came back and sank into the bed. Beside Tom.
“Yes. It is embarrassing. But, I’m also not ashamed. My dad has worked hard. He wasn’t always there for me. It would honestly hurt him more if I didn’t take his money. I tried not taking it, resisted it, really. For a long time. But then my mother died. And… well, my dad is just trying to make up for things the only way he knows how. He always loved me, I just had a hard time understanding it. I thought he loved his money, his stupid career more. But, his career isn’t stupid.” she said.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. It was such a bad time to ask such a question.” he said.
“We can’t have secrets. We all need each other.” Delilah said. She reached out and began stroking his arm. There was something tender, intimate in the gesture. Tom sat stiffly and allowed the touch, wondering just what he was expected to do.
“You two are gross. I’m going to go downstairs. There isn’t much food in the fridge. Can we call in for some grub?” he asked. He left the room without waiting for an answer.
“He really likes it here.” Tom said, watching him go. He tried not to show it, but he felt a little better having him gone. The guy had really freaked out on him. Even scared him a bit. Talk about embarrassed. Tom was embarrassed.
“Yeah. Too bad we have to leave. Do you want to test things and wait? I don’t think we should. I actually think we should probably leave in the morning.” she said.
“That soon? In the morning?” he asked.
“Yeah. I know you don’t want to inconvenience me. I saw it in your reaction earlier. It’s okay. I’m really fine with making some sacrifices. My dad can wire me money. I actually called him today, from a friend’s phone. We have a secret account, and he already wired twelve million dollars into it. He’s going to give us enough money to do whatever it is we want.” she said.
Tom blinked. He fell back and closed his eyes. Twelve million dollars? That was crazy. “Twelve million?” he asked.
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br /> “Yeah. Guilt can be a powerful thing. I think my dad’s worth a few billion, so it’s not that much of a burden. Knowing him, he probably siphoned it from some greedy asshole’s accounts, anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a thief, though… it might be hard. He has a really good reputation with some people. I tried for years to do everything I could to get him to notice me. I had sex with everybody, did drugs…” she said.
“But, weren’t you in the Air Force?” Tom asked.
“Yeah. And the Border Patrol. But what does that matter? You think that all makes people angels?” she asked, her voice rising.
“What did you do in the Air Force, anyway?” he asked. He felt intrigued by her, the conflicting toughness and softness, the brash readiness to act coupled with the sincere, profound insights into others’ mental states.
“Electronic signals intelligence.” she said. The words came out matter-of-factly, as if he were supposed to know what that meant. She sat there, her face still puffy and stained from the lachrymal explosion.
“What does that mean?” he asked. He looked at her, his face blank. He figured it meant she was really smart, which is something he already knew about her.
“It means I sat on my butt in an office, basically. It’s not a big deal. Just, you know, monitor stuff from certain people. Most of what I did was online-based.” she said.
“Did you ever do any drone strikes?” Tom asked, his voice showing his excitement.
Delilah chuckled. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” she said. She frowned. Her demeanor changed. “So, what do you say? You going to be ready to leave in the morning?” she asked.
Chapter 14
The doorbell rang.
Ding-dong. The sound chimed softly in the background, clear enough to be noticeable, but light enough not to be intrusive.
Mike got up and rushed to the front door. Delilah shot up and ran to him, grabbing his arm and holding him back. She whispered something to him, and the painter returned to the couch hanging his head, obviously rebuked. She tensed as she paused in front of the multi-hued glass door. They could see the vague silhouette of the person standing outside, but the shaded glass obstructed a clear view.
Tom sat forward, his neck feeling tight. He watched the door. He sensed his anxiety lurking in the bushes, waiting to pounce in a fatal ambush. The cold, predatory lupine fear prowled the peripheries of his consciousness, and again he felt powerless to stop it. He could only wait. He looked up at the television. Suddenly, something clicked, and he got up, ducking behind the couch. Tom pressed himself to the chilly floor. His teeth began to chatter. He fought the urge to verbally respond to Mike, instead waving him away.
Tom heard the door open.
He tensed. Looking around, eyes searching frantically, he tried to think of what he could use for a weapon, should the need arise. Tom’s mind briefly registered the irony, of him wanting to secure a defensive tool of aggression, but he cast it aside. He felt betrayed by his past, by his weakness. How was he going to be useful to them, if he couldn’t effectively wield a knife or subdue a foe?
Tom heard the door close.
The pleasant aromas of cooked food filled the air. They wafted across the room and dive- bombed Tom’s nostrils as he crouched behind the couch. He peeked over the edge of the furniture, and saw that the coast was clear. Delilah held two large, overfilled white plastic bags with Chinese logograms, the contents pressing against the edges.
She sat the bags down on the glass coffee table, and began extracting Styrofoam containers. Delilah almost dropped the first one. Balancing it between two hands, she grimaced and quickly set it down. The top flew open, and a few thick, greasy brown noodles flopped over the side, sloshing a bit of reddish sauce out and creating a small mess. Delilah opened her mouth as if to protest when Mike got up and rushed to the kitchen, but closed it. She looked down at the bag, then up at Tom. Their eyes met. She laughed.
“I knew he was hungry. But I didn’t know he was that hungry.” she said.
Mike returned, holding a few squares of paper towels. He bent and mopped up the spilled sauce, wiping at the table with a few swift circular motions.
The food smelled like cooked meat, roasted vegetables, and a menagerie of spices. Garlic and ginger co-mingled with onions and oil. Tom experienced a sudden hunger, and he looked towards the viands. Mike had already begun digging into something. The painter’s dish appeared to be some sort of rice thing with glazed chicken and lots of vegetables.
“Come on, get something.” Delilah said.
Tom rounded the corner and stood next to the woman, aware of her scent amidst all of the other conflicting aromas. He watched her as she grabbed a Styrofoam container and took it to the recliner.
“What are you watching?” she asked Mike. She looked around, placing the square-shaped container on the arm of her chair as she searched. Finding the remote, she plucked it up and pointed it up towards the television. “Not while I’m here.” she said. Flipping through channels, she settled on a cable news station. She turned up the volume.
“And a manhunt remains for Thomas Martinez, a former Denver Courier REPORTER who has been widely reported to be the MASKED gunman in the Sunday night SHOOTOUT in El Paso. Who does that? Who GOES INTO an ART GALLERY and begins SHOOTING PEOPLE? This Thomas Martinez must be some sort of cowardly MONSTER…”
Delilah changed the channel. “I never liked Nancy Grace.” she said.
Tom stood there, staring off into space, his senses robbed. He wanted to shout. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hide. “Guess I better cut my hair or something, before we leave in the morning.” he said. Grabbing the remaining tray of food, he plopped down on the couch. The sudden movement caused the contents to spill out onto his lap. It burned for a moment, but he ignored the sensation. He felt numb, fatigued. Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the burdens foisted upon him by evil people.
“We’re leaving in the morning?” Mike asked between behemoth mouthfuls of greasy Chinese cuisine.
“That’s the plan.” Delilah said. She eyed Tom as she took a dainty bite.
He sat there. He stared at nothing. His expression displayed the vacuous state he existed in. Tom retreated into a protective state of shell-shocked nothingness. After several moments, he blinked. He looked down. Tom frowned at the mess in his lap. Scooping big noodles into his hands, he got up, trying to avoid exacerbating the mess he’d already created. He walked awkwardly into the kitchen, where he pulled several paper towels off of the half-empty roll and returned to the living room to clean up. Tom realized he no longer felt hungry.
“Do you all care if I just go ahead and go upstairs for a bit?” he asked. He didn’t want to see the pity in their eyes. So he avoided their stares. Without waiting for any further response, he fled.
Slumping down into the bed, he sighed. He wanted to remain in the big bed’s warm embrace forever. Closing his eyes, Tom allowed his mind to drift. He wondered if he could do this. If it were even within the realm of reasonable possibilities. Could he just run? How long could he endure? Would he become someone different?
Part of him resisted. Fleeing in some ways meant surrender. At least, it did in his warped state of mental affairs. Tom felt his pulse shifting gears and merging into the fast lane. He thought about the myriad indignities forced upon him. He’d been humiliated, degraded, chastised…framed. In many ways, Tom wanted to face the music. Because that could give him a platform for telling the world about what had happened to him. About who his enemies really were.
Of course, those people could, and would, simply refuse to cover his side. They’d spin whatever they did cover. Tom knew that. It was a harsh and unavoidable truth. No amount of desire could summon a rivaling reality. He was going to lose. He had already lost.
The only thing left was to run.
“Where?” he asked. No one was in the room with him. He smiled at himself. Here he was, talking to the empty spaces, hoping for an answer.
Closing his e
yes again, he wondered how he had gotten to this position. His mother, Ela, had raised him to work hard and fight for justice. Tom grabbed on to that tangential thought. Perhaps he could go to the reservation. It wasn’t far. Part White Mountain Apache, his mother was a full-blooded registered member of the tribe. Tom himself wasn’t, but maybe they would be willing to make some exceptions. Since the reservation was technically its own sovereign nation, they could refuse extradition if they so chose.
“They never would, though.” he said.
Folding his arms over his chest, he laid there, legs dangling over the edge, barely inches from the floor. He forced himself to clear his brain. He cast aside all thoughts. Soon, the pacific stillness that comes with living in the moment took him into the caverns of sleep.
He woke up. Looking around, he saw that the room was dark. Delilah snored softly, covered almost entirely by the cotton blanket. Tom felt disoriented. His mouth also was incredibly dry. Getting up, smacking his lips and yawning, his face contorting into an odd mask, he went into the bathroom. Careful not to disturb his new bed partner, he shut the door softly before turning on the light. He blinked. The bulb shone brightly and reflected off of the immaculately clean countertops.
After a moment, he was able to open his eyes without being blinded. He looked into the mirror. A small bed of rough stubble covered his face. It’d been a while since he’d gone without shaving, but that alone would not be sufficient to conceal his identity. He leaned closer to the mirror, and ran a hand over his face. The hair felt strange. He smiled. He kind of liked it. He wondered if maybe he should grow a beard. Tom thought that maybe he should ask Delilah first, and then smiled at that idea.
