Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  The highway analogies seem appropriate to him as he pulls into the fast lane of I-75 North. Traffic is clogging up, but Samuel’s white Taurus seems to glide in and out of problem areas on its own volition. Things are moving quickly, all right, Samuel acknowledges.

  The pain in his temples is now a constant, aching throb. No relief whatsoever, but that’s okay. He can live with it. It’s a part of him now. As much his nature as the things he’s had to do to achieve his dream. What is that famous saying of the Oakland Raider guy? Al Davis?

  Samuel thinks. Searches his memory.

  And then it comes to him.

  Just win, baby.

  A great philosophy for football. And one for life.

  Just win, baby.

  He pictures himself with fellow Navy SEALs on search-and-destroy mission somewhere in Asia, or the Middle East perhaps. That’s what he would say to his fellow SEALs, the most highly trained, dangerous soldiers in the world.

  Just win, baby.

  The image pops into his brain of Julie Giacalone, her eyeballs bulging as he chokes the life right out of her. He had to do it. Sure, he feels it was regrettable. She was a nice person, just too nosy, too concerned about her fucking career. She should have left well enough alone. Not gotten in the way of his dream. He pictures her there in her little Mr. Rogers neighborhood, in her little domestic house with all of her pretty little feminine decorations.

  And then he pictures her hanging from the ceiling fan.

  Not exactly a Martha Stewart moment.

  Samuel cackles out loud at that thought and passes a van with a bumper sticker that reads “Unless you’re a hemorrhoid, get off my ass.” How appropriate. That’s what he’d like to tell the world right now. Just get off my fucking ass.

  It’s a crazy fucking world, he thinks. He’s just trying to make his way in it.

  He’s trying to live the American dream, which is different to everyone. For Julie Giacalone, it was probably to be a big shit in Naval administration, but with a husband and a house full of little brats.

  The pain in his temple bursts and he nearly gasps with the pain as he thinks of someone else’s dream.

  Beth Fischer’s.

  Her dream? To escape Lake Orion. To get away from the drunken clutches of her mother.

  Anna Fischer.

  Anna the Lush.

  She should have kept her nose in a bottle and out of her daughter’s life. Because now she’s involved. The call came out of the blue, he has to admit. Sitting at his desk, working hard for the benefit of Paul Rogers who seemed to be beside himself with worry about Julie Giacalone. Wondering where she could be, going on and on about how she’s never been late in five years of working. Like that’s a good thing. Christ, get a life, Samuel thought.

  Paul Rogers scurrying about like Chicken Little, and the whole time Samuel had to play the concerned co-worker, offering suggestions, helpful advice, wearing an expression of worry.

  The whole time envisioning Julie Giacalone hanging from the goddamned ceiling fan.

  And then Anna Fischer had called him. Drunk. Going on and on about the packages with Beth’s highlight video. How he’d sabotaged THE DREAM, as she emphasized it. On and on about trust. How he’d hurt her more than he could ever imagine.

  Samuel smirks at the thought. Anna Fischer knows nothing about pain. He presses on the accelerator and the Taurus’s scrappy V-8 responds, smoothly cruising past traffic, a white streak in the fast lane.

  Maybe he’d be able to charm his way past Anna, convince her that the post office must have lost the packages. Maybe even lie that he has tracking numbers and that he called and that the packages are still in transit, or mistakenly shipped to Mada-fucking-gascar. She sounded so drunk that she’d believe anything.

  The question is, will she remember any of it when she’s sober?

  Maybe he’d have to step things up a notch with Anna.

  Like he did with Julie Giacalone.

  That way, Beth’s dream of getting out of Lake Orion can come true. And that will play right into Samuel’s pursuit.

  Get the recruits.

  Get back to Coronado.

  Get on with becoming a SEAL.

  It’s simple.

  It’s right.

  It’s the American way.

  Just win, baby.

  Eighty-One

  “Beth, thank you so much for coming to help,” Mrs. Forbes says. “I know he’ll turn up. He’d better turn up or he’s going to be in some serious trouble.” She puts an I’m-a-brave-trooper smile on her face. But Beth can see that the veneer is cracking. Worry is rapidly being replaced with outright fear.

  “Call me on my cell as soon as he comes home,” Beth says, cursing herself for nearly saying “if.”

  Mrs. Forbes nods, her face now fallen into the likeness of granite. Beth sees her jaw muscle bulge. It’s nearly impossible to suppress tears without showing some signs of the effort.

  “Do you need a ride home?” Mrs. Forbes asks.

  “No, I have my Mom’s car. I’m not up to walking it just yet.” Beth’s home, although clearly separated socioeconomically from the Forbes house, is about four miles away. In the summer, before the injury, Beth and Peter would often walk it together. Taking their time. Holding hands. Goofing around.

  “Thanks again for all your help, Beth. You’ll call me if you hear from him?”

  “Immediately,” Beth says. The two women embrace, and Beth leaves the house, shaken by the fierceness of Mrs. Forbes embrace. It was the hug of a mother who fears she’s lost her child. Beth instinctively knew it was the kind of embrace Mrs. Forbes is waiting to unleash on Peter, and Beth was simply the current stand-in.

  Beth walks across the front yard and halfway down the block to where her car is parked. She stops and looks at the sky. A solid sheet of oatmeal gray.

  Peter, where are you?

  There are no answers up there.

  Beth unlocks the car and gets behind the wheel. Her left leg is still in its thick brace and despite its Herculean support, shafts of pain drive into the joint during the awkward act of getting behind the wheel. She’s still got a long way to go. The knee is still being drained on a regular basis. She is continuing her therapy sessions with the hospital therapist.

  But progress is slow.

  Maybe it would go faster if she were into the rehabilitation, but she isn’t. Beth realizes that she should do everything she can to heal as fast as possible so that the therapy sessions can end, but she can go into the DEP program for the Navy - Delayed Entry Program. For up to a year at least. So in that sense, there’s no hurry. And despite her usual steadfast discipline, this time, she’d rather just avoid the pain than face it head-on. At this point, she just doesn’t want to deal with the pain. Why suffer through the agony when time will take care of it?

  She fires up the car, puts it in gear and pulls out into the street. She passes the cars parked on either side of the street. Friends, family, Peter’s teachers. They’ve all come to help.

  Time will bring Peter back, too. Beth feels this despite the bad feeling in her stomach. It’s not like Peter to do this at all. She imagines him wrapped around a tree somewhere, his car crushed. He’s probably in a hospital room somewhere watching Jeopardy as some cute nurse tapes up his bruised ribs.

  That’s the version she wants to believe.

  Or maybe he was shot, caught in the middle of a convenience store robbery somewhere and the police haven’t been able to identify his body yet. Peter dead. The thought chills her.

  She forces it from her mind.

  Beth turns onto the highway and puts the accelerator to the floor. Maybe there’s a message at home from Peter. Be positive, Beth, she tells herself.

  Peter’s fine.

  He’s just…somewhere.

  Eighty-Two

  The booze welcomes Anna back with open arms and unbridled warmth. Like an old friend who’s always there in times of crisis.

  Halfway through the first bottle of whis
key purchased from Mack Avenue Liquor, Anna’s anger nonetheless remains undiluted. If anything, it’s sharper and more focused than before she’d started drinking.

  She trusted him.

  The recruiter.

  He’d played her like a drunken old fool. And she’d practically handed him her daughter on a silver platter.

  When would she ever learn?

  More importantly, when would she ever stop hurting Beth?

  The last thought elicits a soft moan from deep within her. That’s the part that really hurts. The part of her that despite the booze and the wasted years, never really stopped being a Mom.

  She can forgive herself many things.

  But the mother part - that essential aspect of her being will never, ever forgive her for the mistakes she’d made with her daughter.

  Even the booze can’t wash that away.

  She raises the glass to her lips and takes a long drink of whiskey. It no longer burns her throat. Instead, it slides down with astonishing ease. Smooth as silk until it spreads out in her belly like some heaven-sent mushroom cloud, vaporizing any last remaining shreds of doubt.

  Anna looks at the clock.

  She’s got a few minutes yet.

  She tops off her glass and walks unsteadily toward her bedroom. She’s got a vague idea in her mind. Like most thoughts during a drunk, they’re rather fuzzy and not terribly well-defined. But it’s an idea that holds a certain power for her. She walks into her bedroom and sets the whiskey glass down on her dresser. The framed picture on the dresser top catches her eye. It’s of Vince. He looked so much like Beth. The strong jaw. The challenging light in the eyes. A strong personality quietly offering to take whatever the world can dish out - and then give it back in spades.

  Beth has that same spirit.

  Or at least she used to. Before her wretch of a mother took over her life.

  Anna sets the picture down, it wobbles and topples over. When she picks it back up, she sees the glass is cracked and spiderwebbed.

  The tears come then, slowly and steadily. Several minutes later, they’re gone. Anna puts the picture back in its place and takes another drink, turning her back to the picture so Vince can’t see her. Shame is another emotion the booze can’t suppress.

  Anna goes to her closet and reaches up to the top shelf. The shoebox is still there, a thin film of dust on its top. She takes it down and sets it on the bed, then sits next to it. She looks over at the picture and Vince is looking at her. Challenging her.

  She doesn’t know what to do.

  She takes the top off and reaches in, her fingers recoiling initially from the feel of the cool metal. She picks up the heavy automatic and holds it in both hands. Don’t think, she tells herself. Just act. Just take care of the problem you created.

  Vince taught her how to handle a gun. One of the many lessons she should have learned from him, but that for the most part died with him. But now, it comes back to her. She reaches into the shoebox and retrieves the magazine filled with the heavy bullets. She slams it into the butt of the gun, feels it lock in place. She turns off the safety.

  Okay, she thinks.

  It feels totally unnatural and for a moment, she’s outside herself, looking down with detached horror.

  But then she comes back to herself.

  The feeling of disconnectedness is gone.

  She feels good.

  She’s doing something.

  Taking action.

  It’s about time she righted a few wrongs.

  Time. What time is it? She looks again at the clock. He should be here any minute. The message she left the recruiter - that she knows what he’s done and that she’s going to put a stop to all his plans - was designed to put the fear of God into him. Anna knows he’ll rush right over, trying to protect his investment, so to speak.

  Well, he’s in for a few surprises.

  Anna stands and feeling like a corny t.v. cop, she reaches behind her and slides the gun between her jeans and the small of her back. She pulls her sweatshirt down over the back so the recruiter won’t notice anything. She has no plans to kill him, just scare the life out of him.

  She goes back to the dresser and picks up her glass, takes a long drink.

  The whiskey slides down her throat and she looks at the picture on her dresser. On cue, a small shard of glass drops the frame and lands on the dresser, spinning for a brief moment before coming to rest.

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

  Anna freezes for just a moment, then drains the rest of the whiskey and hurries toward the front door.

  Eighty-Three

  “I need your full attention, do you understand?” Esposito says into his cell phone. His voice is calm and steady.

  After a short moment, the voice on the other end responds. Paul Rogers informs Esposito that the detective does in fact, have his full attention.

  Esposito, standing in the driveway of Julie Giacalone’s house, waiting for the crime scene technicians to arrive as well as the first of the Lake Orion cops, speaks slowly.

  “Where is Samuel Ackerman?”

  “He’s out of the office right now,” Rogers says carefully.

  “I didn’t ask where he isn’t, I asked where he is. Now, if he’s not at the office, then where his he?”

  A shuffle of papers. “Probably meeting with recruits.”

  “Which recruits?”

  Another shuffle of papers. “Hold on just a second.” Esposito can hear the man’s labored breathing as he hurries across the office. “I’ll have to check his status sheet.”

  The sound of computer keys tapping followed by a soft whir of a hard drive. “Um. My guess would be Fischer. Beth. 928 Cherry Street, Lake Orion.”

  “Give me the phone number.”

  Rogers does and Esposito thanks him, and tells him that if Ackerman returns to the office, to do nothing, to just go about his business as usual. As soon as he disconnects with Rogers, Esposito calls his Chief and as quickly as possible, explains the situation. More cops will stake out the recruiting office and wait for Ackerman’s return. Meanwhile, an APB will be issued. As well as alerts on Ackerman’s car.

  Esposito hangs up with the chief and calls the Fischer number.

  Christ, let someone be home, Esposito thinks.

  Whatever happens, don’t let Ackerman be there.

  The phone rings as Esposito hurtles down the freeway.

  It will take him ten minutes to get there.

  He hopes he’s not too late.

  Eighty-Four

  “Can I get you another drink, Anna?” Samuel asks, his voice smooth and one hundred percent sincere. “Your vocal cords must be sore after that lecture you just gave me.” His smile is big and warm. Inside, his stomach his quaking, but on the outside, he appears to be in complete control. Although the scenarios ricocheting through his head have set his heart off on a wild series of palpitations, when he catches a glimpse of his face on the dining room’s mirror, he looks serene.

  Anna looks up at him and Samuel can tell that she’s checking to see if he’s serious about the offer to fetch her a drink. She’s just read him the riot act. Accusing him of a terrible crime; sabotaging Beth’s dream so that she would go into the Navy. Amazing how perceptive a drunk can be.

  “How can you stand there looking so…smug?” she asks him. Her eyes are half-lidded, her jaw slack. “You know you did it!” The words come out heavily slurred.

  Samuel crosses the room, snatches the bottle from the dining room table in one swift move, and splashes three fingers of whiskey into Anna’s glass. He walks back to Anna and offers the glass which she accepts with both hands. Samuel fights back a smirk.

  “I swear to God I put those packages in the mail,” Samuel says.

  “I don’t believe you.” Now she sounds petulant.

  Dark swirls roam through Samuel’s mind. His temple throbs with activity. The pain is shooting through his forehead. He thinks back to when he was a boy. The time he ran away from home
and his father caught him when he was only three blocks away. His father had tied him to a tree in the backyard. It was just about dinnertime. And Samuel thought after dinner his father would untie him. And then after dinner, when no respite came, Samuel thought he’d untie him before bedtime. But once the lights in the house were turned off and everyone was sound asleep, Samuel was still tied to the tree.

  He stayed there all night. In the morning, he awoke to find the rope had cut through his skin and he’d bled profusely. Mosquitoes had made mincemeat of his face.

  His father had freed him just before lunch.

  Samuel hadn’t tried to run away again.

  “-not going to happen,” Anna finishes saying. Samuel snaps out of his memory.

  “Pardon me,” he says, his voice tight with emotion.

  “I said it isn’t going to happen. Beth isn’t going in the Navy. You can take your bullshit sales pitch somewhere else.” Anna is gesturing with the glass and a splash of whiskey falls to the carpet.

  “Don’t you think you should leave that up to Beth?” Samuel asks. He’s fighting to keep this from escalating. He can feel the anger surging in his body. The darkness in his mind is receding, and the crystalline logic of murder takes its place. The boy’s disappearance could be explained. Julie Giacalone’s suicide could be explained. But now the death of another recruit’s family member? The cops would eventually find the link; Samuel Ackerman. The best way would be to keep this drunk old bitch alive. He could convince the cops on the rest of the disappearances, but if she went away, the spotlight on him would be relentless.

  Still, if she absolutely refused to leave Beth alone, to let her daughter make her own fucking decision, well, he would have to take matters into his own hands.