Let it go…
Paul stopped, thought of Will, and the house on Marley Street. Suddenly a thought struck like a thunderbolt from a clear sky: a thought so clear it amazed in its stark and utter simplicity.
He could just let him go…
…and suddenly what had seemed impossible revealed itself to be all too possible, all too perfect. No one as yet knew of Will’s fate; to the world at large, he was still a fugitive from justice, a boy on the run. So what would happen if Paul just threw open the door and said, go? Will could run, in so doing becoming the very thing everyone already thought he was. If they caught him, they caught him — his fate would be his own. And what could he say? Imaginary interrogations danced like sugar plums in Paul’s mind… So he kidnapped you and put you in a box? Uh-huh, sure kid… Oh, so he shaved your head, you didn’t do it to alter your appearance? Right right right right… He almost cut your toe off, but didn’t? Yup yup yup yup. The box would be long gone. No one would ever believe him.
And if Will wasn’t caught?
Then he would run, Paul realized. He would run until the day he died. In its own perverse way, it would be fitting: a life on the lam, hiding in shadows, always afraid, always hunted. It was like no life at all. In a world without true justice, perhaps that would have to do.
But what then, of Paul’s quest — his dark, twisted mission? What then, of the why?
Paul sighed. Hard as it was to accept, perhaps it was not a question to which there was an answer — at least, not one such as he had envisioned. Perhaps the answer, such as it was, was not to be found in the asking, but in the living. To honor his daughter by living his life, and make that life a living testimony to all he loved in her. To let her spirit go wherever it had gone, secure in the knowledge that the people she loved were whole and well.
Something stirred within him then, and he knew: he had a choice. He was like a man standing at a crossroads. One way leading to Julie, and New Hope, and the promise of life. And the other?
Paul finished packing his things, turned his attention to Julie’s. He didn’t know exactly what she would want or need, but it didn’t matter: if she didn’t care for his choices, she could buy whatever she wanted once they got there. And with any luck at all, they’d be spending most of their time wearing very little, or nothing at all.
He grabbed a few things from the closet -- her favorite jeans, some sweaters, a slinky evening dress, then moved to her bureau and opened the top drawer. Inside lay a delicate tangle of bras and panties, a Victoria’s Secret wonderland of lace and cotton and smooth sheer silk. It was a total mystery to Paul, even though in all candor he had probably bought half of what resided there; but once off the rack and esconced in the drawer, it became a veritable no-man’s land. Julie even laundered them separately, as if to even temporarily reside in the same hamper with Paul’s duds was to violate some obscure girl-tech taboo. Soft scent wafted from the drawer; it even smelled like Julie, the faint hint of perfume flaring his nostrils and filling him with lost feelings of lust.
Paul breathed deeply, taking it in, then reached in and started pulling out dainty pieces. Easier said than done; Julie’s organizational tendencies seemed to halt outright at the border of the panty drawer. It contents were a soft and indecipherable mess, spaghetti straps and hooks and underwires clinging together in a tenaciously perplexing mass; Paul fumbled, clumsy and ham-handed, trying to liberate a bra. It came up inexplicably attached to a half dozen other garments. Not knowing what else to do, he shook it; the bra came free, but the tangled clump of panties and sundry unmentionables tumbled to the floor.
"Shit," he hissed guiltily. Paul quickly knelt, scooping up the fallen undies. As he did, something fell from their folds, landed softly on the floor. Paul looked down, saw a small bag of potpourri; he smiled and shook his head, thinking what is the deal with potpourri? If I gave her a bunch of dead flowers, I’d be a schmuck…. but crunch ‘em up and put ‘em in a bag, and hey, what’s not to like?
Paul picked up the bag, still smiling, then looked down. Something lay under it, also having fallen: a little pink square of neatly folded paper.
He picked it up, curious. It was a smudged and blurry NCR form — a carbonless copy of a business receipt. Its presence there was odd, out of place. One corner of the fold was curled back; Paul could make out the words …MEN’S CLINIC.
Huh? He thought, feeling instantly torn. A voice in his head cautioned put it back, it’s none of your business, what are you doing?
Paul started to place it back in the drawer.
Then unfolded and read it instead.
The header said CHELSEA WOMEN’S CLINIC, with a Manhattan street address. Paul vaguely wondered, what the hell did Julie go to a New York Clinic for? Then his jaw dropped, as his eyes scrolled down the sheet. The information was handwritten in a neat cursive script filling in the rows of tiny boxes.
Services provided: 037.… Status: outpatient… Fee: $350… Method of payment: cash…
She paid cash? Paul wondered. It made no sense. He flipped the form over, to where the code listings were printed in pale blue.
037: Termination.
Termination? Paul freaked. It felt like his heart stopped completely, as all the blood drained from his face in one instant, came flooding back hot. Julie had an abortion? He couldn’t believe his eyes. He flipped the receipt back over, saw the date: September 23. His wife had an abortion almost four months ago, and never told him? It still made no sense. Paul’s name scanned the form, and suddenly his eyes went wide: he lurched forward, leaning against the bureau, breath heaving violently. The paper dropped from his grasp, wafting down to land face-up in the drawer.
"No," Paul growled. "No…" Suddenly he wrenched the drawer from its slot, flung it wildly across the room. It smashed against the far wall, contents cascading down to litter the floor and bed.
"GOD DAMN IT!" Paul screamed, grabbing hold of the bureau and sending it toppling. Photos and mementos smashed into rubble in the wreckage; in one, white hot instant, all thoughts of escape, of peace, sundered and immolated, as Paul careened out of the bedroom and down the hall, still screaming. As he did he trod across the receipt, his boot print marking the smudgy print. It had taken him a moment to read it correctly, as his eyes had seen what he wanted to see… or rather, had not seen what he could not allow himself to.
A name, written clearly, in the box marked Patient.
Kelly. Kyra Anne.
"NOOOO!" Paul howled. The receipt lay torn and crumpled, the bedroom in shambles, as he pounded down the stairs, slammed the back door behind him.
It was three fifty-five.
FORTY-ONE
It was four ten when Paul’s truck thundered up to the Rescue One parking lot and screeched to a halt. He left the engine running and jumped out, his thoughts boiled down to a blood red rage.
Paul entered the station through the rear door to the bay. The space was cavernous, empty: both rig and crew were gone, off on a run. More than coincidence. Paul had pulled the fire alarm himself, some ten blocks hence. Pulling a false alarm was a felony.
Paul didn’t care. Not anymore.
She lied to me. The thoughts roiled in his brain. They both lied. In the blink of an eye, his past had shifted like scorched sand beneath his feet, as his image of Kyra crumbled and reformed, became alien, a stranger. And Julie…
Why? The voice in his head wailed. Why why why why?
At that moment the why’s which had driven him for so long melted into each other, melding into one burning, primal need to know. He felt betrayed, anguished, incensed. Enraged.
Paul crossed the concrete floor, came to the steel storage cage. He quickly unlocked the padlock, threw open the door with an echoing clang. He opened the door of the storage cabinet, grabbed a handful of amyl nitrate poppers, stuffing his pockets. Paul slammed the doors shut and turned.
The spare defibrillator unit sat on the table, charge light glowing green. It was a small device built by a company call
ed MedTech, about the size of a typewriter case, with recessed slots for the retractable, corded shock paddles and rows of dials and switches to control the voltage. Paul checked the meters. Good to go. He unhooked it and picked it up, then turned, only to come face to face with Wallace Clyborne, dressed in street clothes, a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Wallace looked surprised to see him.
"Paul… Hi," he said.
Paul eyeballed him coldly. "What are you doing here?"
"Nothing," Wallace said nervously. "I mean, I came in early, to study. I heard a noise, and… " He stopped, saw the defib unit in Paul’s hands. "Where’re ya goin’?"
"None of your fucking business," Paul told him, then pushed past, knocking the probie back into the cage. The metal clanged and rattled; Wallace watched in confusion as Paul kept right on going, across the bay and out the door. Not knowing what had happened to so piss him off.
And never imagining what he intended to do about it.
~ * ~
The back door of the house on Marley Street exploded inward under the force of Paul’s boot. He shouldered his way through the shattered portal, shoved it closed behind him. The door was ruined. He didn’t care.
The basement door loomed. Paul fished the key from his pocket, unlocked it. The door swung back. The basement steps yawned before him, dark and foreboding. His breath hissed through clenched teeth. His mind swirled, molten. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. But he had seen the proof. His daughter. His wife. His family.
Liars.
No more, he vowed. No more bullshit. No more evasion. No more games. Paul would have the truth, no matter the cost, and he would have it now. He did not know who was to blame. But he knew where to begin.
Paul began his final descent.
~ * ~
Will huddled in the box, shivering. His stomach gnawed and fluttered; he felt weak and shaky, anxious. There was no heat to speak of; the interior of the box was cold.
Suddenly the door to the box unlocked. Will pulled himself upright, surprised; as the door pried open he shoved the bolt into a crack under the lip of the bed, pressing its point into the wood. He tried to look innocent as Paul entered, eyes blazing, jaw set as if carved from stone.
Will stood on shaking legs, trying to make fake-nice. "What’s wrong?" he asked.
Paul decked him.
The blow landed hard, caught Will completely off guard. The sheer force of it buckled his legs as the boy collapsed, head banging against the side of the chair. Will landed on the floor in a crumpled heap, his vision blurred and filled with stars.
Paul dropped the defib unit on the bunk, knelt to straddle him. "No more," he hissed, twisting to flip open the defib’s lid.
Will sputtered and spat blood. "No more what…?" he gasped.
Paul whirled and slapped him, a backhand blow that slammed his skull back onto unyielding floor. Will reeled, caught a glimpse of the bolt, hanging down under the lip of the bunk, just out of reach.
"Time to give it up, boy," Paul said, reaching down to rip open Will’s shirt. Will strained to escape, but he was too depleted, Paul’s weight hard upon him. His eyes swam in terror as Paul flipped the "on" switch, meters surging. Paul uncoiled the shock paddles and cranked the dial to one hundred joules.
As the defib hummed to life Paul took his weight off Will’s chest. The pitch rose to a high keening whine as Paul quickly pulled a tube of conductive gel from his jacket pocket, uncapped it with his teeth and greased the metal surface of the paddles. "What are you doing?" the boy asked.
The keening peaked. Paul turned and thrust the paddles to Will’s chest.
The shock hit like a Mack truck, slamming through the boy’s nervous system at the speed of light. Will went rigid and spasmed, veins in his temples bulging to the burst point as his teeth chattered like castanets. His bladder voided instantly, darkening the crotch of his sweats; his heels pounded a mad staccato rhythm against the floor. Paul waited for the spasm to subside, then cranked the dial to one-fifty.
"Why did you kill my daughter?" Paul demanded.
Will’s eyes focused and glared, defiant. His good boy vibe evaporated along with any hope of mercy. "F-fuck you…" he said.
Paul shocked him again.
He waited as the tremors raged and retreated, cranked the dial up again. Two hundred.
"Why did you kill her, Will?"
"B-bastard," Will snarled, coughing up raw spittle. "You fucking b-bastard…"
Paul shocked him again. Will convulsed, passed out. Mucus streamed from his nostrils; his pulse and respiration flailed. Paul pulled a popper from his pocket, cracked it, waved it under Will’s nose. The boy coughed and retched, blearily coming to. Sweat tracked the surface of his skin as Paul upped the voltage to three hundred. The defib unit whined, charge building.
"Last chance, " he warned. "Why?"
The question hovered. Will sneered, tears spilling from his eyes. He mumbled something unintelligibly. Paul loomed over him.
"What?" he said. "Speak up, you little fuck! Why’d you do it?" Paul roared. "WHY?"
"BECAUSE I LOVED HER!!!" Will suddenly howled, a torrent of anguish spilling out. He glared at Paul with eyes afire. "Because I fucking loved her!!!!"
The boy broke down then, sobbing bitter tears that had nothing to do with the torture. Paul hesitated, stunned and suspicious. He dropped the paddles, grabbed Will by the shoulders. "What are you saying?"
Will looked up; their eyes met, held. And Paul hummed like a high-tension wire as Will finally disgorged the secret he had fought so hard to hide…
~ * ~
They were lovers. No one knew. She saw things in him that no one else could see, as he did in her — the people they were inside, the people they wanted to be. When they were together, the world disappeared, and they dreamed of a life free. But she knew that Paul would not allow it; would never allow Will to be. So they hid their love from everyone. They were a universe of two.
And then she got pregnant…
… and she was scared, so scared. Kyra feared what Paul would do: to her, to Will, to the love they shared. She was afraid of the look she imagined in his eyes. Her whole life was planned, from boyfriends to college to career to the house she’d share with the perfect Mr. Right. It was a wonderful life, with one small defect: it wasn’t hers, and never had been. It was Paul’s: the one he demanded of her. The only life his perfect girl could ever be allowed to have…
…and Will said let’s run, go somewhere no one knew, somewhere they could be themselves. She was the only good thing he had ever known. But she wasn’t strong enough. And she told him no.
Will died when he saw the pain in her eyes, died again when she tried to avoid him, for days, then weeks, a month. He begged her to see him just one more time. Finally she agreed, and they met in secret on Marley Street, as they had so many times before. Will was hurt and angry, tired of hiding. He wanted them to be together. She said she couldn’t do it to her family, to her father. Will said they’d make their own family. Live their own lives.
She was crying. She said she was sorry to hurt him like this. But her answer was final. And the answer was no.
But what about the baby? he asked achingly. Kyra crumbled, an empty shell.
There is no baby, she told him. Not anymore.
Will was slaughtered, betrayed, a shell himself. The world blurred and ran red, as love became hate became endless boundless bottomless rage…
Kyra turned to go … Will said no… he reached for her… she pushed him away… and his hands were on her throat…and she fought to escape him… and his hands were on her throat… and she cried out for daddy…
…and his hands were on her throat…
~ * ~
Will stopped. Emotionally stripped. Physically ravaged. His soul, an open wound.
Paul slumped back; shell-shocked, confused. His gaze drifted away, searching the walls, the floor, the wretched confines of the prison he’d built with his own two hands. His head began to slowly sh
ake. "The fire…" he croaked.
"Letters," Will croaked back. "Notes. Stuff she wrote me. Stuff I wrote her. Stuff I drew. Everything. I burned it all. I didn’t want it any more. Even before I went there, I knew, she’d never be able to go. She was too fucking scared."
"Of you…" Paul said.
"No." Will said flatly. "Of you…"
Paul glared at him. "Bullshit," he growled. "That’s not true…"
"Yeah," the boy snorted derisively. "Like you would know…" Paul winced, the truth of it piercing his emotional armor. Suddenly he could see it: Will, burning his dreams, burning his history, erasing himself in a pre-emptive emotional kamakaze run. Paul winced again, as if recoiling from the acrid fumes.
Will felt nauseous and weak, but even in his pain he knew: this was his chance, the last one he’d ever get. As Paul’s head shook Will’s arm snaked out and under the bunk, blindly searching.
"I don’t understand," Paul murmured, lost in his own mad thoughts. "You could’ve said something." Paul looked at the boy, the box that held them, the whole hideous nightmare incarnate. Will’s eyes narrowed. "Why didn’t you…?"
"Because I hate you," Will hissed bitterly. His fingers found the bolt, closed on it. "I hate your fucking perfect little bullshit world." The boy laughed and coughed blood, a weak and caustic outpouring. "You think you’re so fucking great, but you’re so full of shit…"
"Shut up," Paul growled, blinking back sweat. "Shut up…"
But Will would not shut up. His words hit like bullets, punching holes in Paul’s soul. "You thought you were so fucking tight," Will continued, "but you didn’t even know her!"
Paul winced again, thoughts pounding his skull. In his mind’s eye he saw Kyra, crying… Kyra, pulling away… but from who? From Will? Or from him? Paul shook his head. "You ruined her life…" he said.
"Me??!!! " Will scoffed. "What about you??" His words boomed out through a voice raw and ravaged, somehow larger than the body from which they issued, or the walls that constrained them. "You never even knew who she really was, ‘cuz you were too fucking busy trying to make her into something else!"
A Question of Will Page 28
