This did not work.
Your left leg hit first. Before you could shift your weight your knee was driven into your jaw. A world-class uppercut delivered by yourself. For a moment everything was fireworks, copper, dust. Then your brain cleared out.
You’d made it.
Your contraband was to your left, Scarface was a distant threat, and you were only a quarter mile from an angel-in-waiting.
What you didn’t expect was . . . well . . . any of it.
Ava was at the meeting spot, a dusty trailhead near the Wildwood hiking areas. That part matched up with what you’d pictured.
She’d stepped out of the car, closed the door. She’d left the headlights off. You couldn’t see her well. You’d taken longer than expected to reach her, moving along with a limping trot. You began to apologize.
“I know I’m running a little behind but you won’t believe . . .”
And then she hit you with the Tazer.
You were already on the gravel before you recognized the crackling sound, felt the darts piercing your belly.
For a moment you thought that you’d been shot. That Stump Lo had found the pair of you and you were dead for sure.
But it was Ava holding the Tazer, and she wasn’t letting up on the volts.
Your right leg was folded underneath your body. With the next blast of juice you felt your calf pull too tight. Your fragile iliotibial band finally gave with an audible snap. You would have screamed if your jaw wasn’t clenched shut.
Ava let up on the trigger. She said, “Bag!”
You gestured towards your pack and the duffel bag, thrown three feet to your side.
“Ava, what . . .”
She turned the juice back on. Grabbed the duffel, clearly not interested in conversation. She stepped closer.
“I’m going to release the trigger, but if you start to talk I’ll Taze you until your hair starts on fire. Got me?”
You made your best effort at a nod.
She crouched closer. “You’re not coming with me, but you should still run. You probably didn’t even think of this, but Stump’s place has a shit-ton of cameras. They make him feel gangster. He’s no killer, but the people who supply him will not be pleased.”
She’d been rehearsing this, leaving no room for emotion. Maybe she really loved you. Maybe this was some kind of test . . .
She continued. “You’ve probably killed me. This is what people will think. They will find a letter at Union Jack’s, talking about how you’d been planning to rob Stump. You threatened to kill me if I didn’t go along with it. You’d even joked about burying me out here in Forest Park and keeping the drugs for yourself. The girls I worked with last night think I’m scared of you. I really sold it. There are plenty of people who’ve seen you staring at me for hours. It will read as stalker behavior after the letter gets out.”
“But, Ava . . .”
ZZZZRNT! You seized up. She was not trigger-shy on the Tazer.
“Don’t try to find me.”
Another long jolt with the Tazer. Then she was kneeling by your side, properly pegging you as too jellied for combat. Even in the dark, you could sense she was smiling. She was back at your ear.
“I did love the ring, by the way, but I had to sell it today. Easier to send off the single mother vibe without it.”
Then she was over you. Her breath smelled like black licorice. She leaned in to kiss you on the lips.
And you, you sorry sonofabitch, you still wanted it. When her lips met yours you closed your eyes, hoped time would slow.
But it ended, and she was up and the Tazer was left in the dirt.
“You’re smart enough to know I’m right. Get the fuck out of Portland.”
“Ava . . .”
“Good luck.”
Her car door slammed. Headlights slapped you blind and she was gone.
You hobble-dragged yourself three miles before realizing you couldn’t go further. Dawn would come and you were far too savaged for your runner’s ruse to help you.
You made it to a house which looked unoccupied. You memorized the street address, crawled to the backyard to keep from being spotted street-side.
You drained the water from your CamelBak, still felt Death Valley thirsty.
There was one stroke of luck in all of this. Ava left you with your cell phone.
Call it an oversight.
Your first phone call was to Uncle Joshua. He slurred a groggy “Hello?” but was alert after hearing your voice. You gave him the address. Said to come to the backyard of the house. Don’t ask why.
He didn’t. You’d run with him as best you could this last Thursday, knowing it might be your last time together. He’d started to ask you questions about late nights, your hitchy right leg. You’d cut him off.
“Things are just kind of crazy right now. I met this girl . . .”
Uncle Joshua had laughed and let out a slow, knowing “Oh.” You’d worked hard to ignore your leg, picked up the pace. He got the message.
You hoped he’d pick up his pace now. You’d lost a lot of blood. How long did you have before Stump figured out he’d been jacked? How long before Ava’s friends would have the cops scanning Forest Park for a body they’d never find?
A light turned on over the patio at the rear of the house. Could be on a timer—you weren’t taking any chances. You crawled across the grass, spotting a large and thankfully empty dog house.
You crept in, found it surprisingly plush. Call it delirium, but you swore the west wall had an on-switch for a tiny A/C unit. Even the dogs up in the hills were living easy.
You leaned against the rear wall, set your CamelBak on your belly. Unzipped the pack. Pulled out your accidental insurance policy.
You’d broken in to Ava’s place on Thursday night, knowing she was working at Devil’s Point, to bring her underwear back. Ever since you’d stolen them you’d felt weird about it. They turned you on, but you wanted to move past connecting to people through their things. You had a chance to be with the flesh-and-blood girl. Starting out psychotic felt wrong.
But once you were in her place you couldn’t help exploring. You rifled the bag she’d packed, wanting to see what kind of swimsuits she’d be wearing to the beach.
You’d been living with compulsion so long you didn’t even question it when you pocketed the thing. She was going to need it with her. This way you’d be certain she wouldn’t forget it.
But you could have left it in the bag. It was already packed. She wasn’t going to forget it. Maybe, deep down in the recesses of your memory, you were thinking of Mary Ashford and Sarah Miller, and that twinge of pain kept her passport in your pocket.
Your second call was to Information. They automatically connected you through to a Customs agent at PDX.
You noticed silver sparkles in your vision that couldn’t mean anything good. Zoning on the passport photo helped you focus.
God, she was easy on the eyes. Too bad she was murder on the rest of you.
You told the man on the phone what she looked like, what kind of uniquely contraband baby she was carrying. You told him that the woman’s birth name was Jean Christenson, but that she preferred to be called Ava, which was short for Avarice.
He noted that the name seemed appropriate.
“More than you’ll ever know, pal.” You closed the cell, thinking of her last words to you.
Good luck.
Your chest began to shake.
You were still laughing when your Uncle Joshua arrived and spotted your running shoes sticking out of the tiny house in the stranger’s yard.
He crouched down, looked you over.
“Jesus! Are you okay?”
In between gusts of mad laughter you managed to say, “Nope. I’m in a bad place. I’m going to have to run.”
“Okay, we’ll get to that. First let’s get you out of that fucking dog house.”
He managed to get you upright, with your arm around his shoulder and as much weight as you could
bear on your dog-mauled leg.
Once he started the car he looked over at you, seemingly relieved that you’d stopped laughing. The pain of moving had killed the chuckles.
Your Uncle had a hundred questions on his face. He asked one.
“The girl?”
You nodded in the affirmative then, over and over, guessing he would understand: Yes I was a sucker I thought it was love and yes I’m still remembering her kiss and the worst part is that if you ask me if I am still in love with Ava gorgeous terrible amazing vicious Ava I might say yes despite it all Yes.
You began to shake, nodding, mumbling, “OhGodohGodohGod. . . .”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy. Trust me, you’ve just hit the wall. You know that’s as bad as it gets. I’m with you. You’re gonna get fixed up. You’ve got to tell me enough to keep you safe, but that’s it. We’ll go where we need to. And soon as you can foot it, soon as you get past this wall, the morning runs are back. And this time there’s no dropping it. No goddamn way. Whatever’s got itself inside of you, kiddo, we’re going to hit the streets and clear it the fuck out.”
He twisted his grip on the steering wheel, gunned his car down slender curving roads on the way to the hospital. Dawn was approaching. It was likely to be another beautiful grey-green morning in Portland. Could your Uncle really be willing to leave his home behind just to protect your mangled carcass?
You wondered at your luck, knowing this man.
He approached a red light, started to hesitate, took one look at you, and then pushed right through.
And you, you love-sick bastard, you finally let shock take hold.
THE GARAGE DOOR
KRIS SAKNUSSEMM
Mr. Kricorian was extremely upset by Newton’s disappearance. As the boy’s stepfather, he’d never felt entirely comfortable in the role of disciplinarian, although he sensed keenly sometimes how much Newton was crying out for discipline without knowing it. Three days before, he’d asked Newton to vacuum out the car. Newton became sullen, the way only fifteen-year-olds become sullen. Mr. Kricorian went off to tinker with a pegboard in the utility room. Soon he heard the whooshing of the vacuum hose.
Newton vacuumed out the car all right. But, in connecting the extension cord, he temporarily unplugged the freezer. Then he forgot to plug the freezer back in, and three gallons of ice-cream, which since the development of his stomach ailment, had become Mr. Kricorian’s staple food, melted. Kricorian went out the next day and found six tubs of Butter Brickle soup.
Of course he’d had a little chat with Newton. Unfortunately he lost his temper. Now Newton was gone. No note. Nothing. The Barnharts said they thought they’d seen the boy sleeping on the beach, but that was hardly likely. It’d been quite cold at night. Kricorian wished his wife would say something. She seemed so level-headed. It made him feel guilty. It made him worry. He began to wait up at night for Newton to return. He even left some cold chicken, a carton of milk and a slice of torte out on the front step. But the next morning the food was still there.
His stomach started to burn again. He gulped at his Maalox. Come morning his wife would find him sleeping stiffly in the EZ Boy reclining chair. He insisted on keeping a vigil. Until some word came.
It was after midnight. He was sure because he’d watched the late news and then some comedy nonsense. He flicked off the TV. His wife was asleep. He could hear her breathing. It seemed to him as if there’d been a knock. He rose, shut the bedroom door, and rinsed his face with tap water. He heard the knock again—a knocking—this time quite plainly on the garage door. His first thoughts were vague and territorial. If it was Newton, why wouldn’t he knock on the front door? Why wouldn’t he just let himself in?
Kricorian stepped into the dark garage brandishing the chin-up bar he’d yet to install. He decided not to turn on the light. Whoever it was outside would be able to see him too clearly. Of course, he would be at the same disadvantage. The knocking grew softer but more localized. He pressed the button that set the chain whirring and clicking. The door opened slowly and the night air poured in, cool and fog-smelling.
He stopped and listened, waiting for his eyesight to rejoin him. The pines and cypress trees across Buccaneer Drive looked darker than he’d ever seen them. He couldn’t hear the waves. There was no one outside the door. He heard nothing. “Hello?” he said. “Who’s there?”
He remembered the volunteer from the Cystic-Fibrosis Walk-a-thon. What a long way to come up the road for just one house. He wondered if it would be scary to walk through the woods alone in the dark. He was at the edge of his property when he felt the moist sand under his slippers. He had a sudden desire to urinate.
There were no stars visible, just high coastal clouds. He shivered as he finished and kept picking his way forward. He’d almost forgotten what had drawn him outside, until he turned around and strolled back within view of the house. He was proud of the place and stopped to admire what he could see of it in the faint front yard lights along the driveway, a little blurry now in the thin mist. The picture window that was perfect for sunsets, the redwood fence, the garage door. For some reason the garage door was now closed.
The mechanism hasn’t been working quite right, it just closed by itself, he reasoned—although he wondered why he hadn’t heard it. He must’ve wandered farther from the house than he’d thought. But in any case, how was he going to get back in? His wife was sound asleep and he naturally didn’t have a key on him. Would she hear if he knocked? She hadn’t heard the other knocking. He’d forgotten about that for a moment. He began to rap on the garage door, feeling the vibrations tremble through his hands. Nothing. The door was sealed shut. Finally, he got frustrated and squatted in the dirt and began flinging tiny clods against it. He was staring right at the handsome criss-cross design when he heard the grating of the chain. The door began to quietly hum and yawn, almost grazing him. He stared into the darkness inside.
“Newton?” he called. The shadow moved again. “Who are you?” he snarled, groping for the chin-up bar he’d left on the bumper of his car. He heard a groan. The garage light snapped alive, blinding him as the darkness had.
It was a teenage boy facing him, buckled in a heap under the light switch. But it was definitely not Newton. It was a larger, stronger boy of seventeen or eighteen wearing what might’ve been a t-shirt. It was hard to tell because the boy was covered in blood. There was bright red blood all over his face and hands and arms—as if it had been painted on.
“My God!” breathed Kricorian.
“Crackup!” the boy blurted.
“Are you—are you all right?” Kricorian gasped automatically. “W-what did you say?”
“Car crash. I was driving. We had an acc—everybody’s dead. I was the driver.”
“You’re hurt! There’s blood all over you.”
“Not mine. Stevie’s blood—was leanin’ out the window when we went over—over the bank. I’m the driver. I killed them all.”
Kricorian stepped back from this vision absolutely petrified. “Did you—were you—knocking?” was all he could say.
“Couldn’t find—other door,” came the answer. “Didn’t know where the next house would be.”
“I think—I think you should come—inside,” Kricorian mumbled, motioning the hulking youth through the door. “I’ll get some towels.”
Kricorian gave a quick thought to waking his wife but decided against it for the time being. Instead he grabbed a pile of towels and an old sheet out of the linen closet and laid the sheet out over the EZ Boy recliner. The boy flopped down in the chair. He looked as if he’d been struck dumb. Something bothered Kricorian about the look of the blood on the boy’s body.
“I think you should pull yourself together—tell me what happened and then I’ll make some phone calls. You should get to a hospital,” Kricorian said, trying to sound calm and authoritative.
“Don’t call!” the boy wailed suddenly. “It won’t do—any good.”
“We have to call. You have
to report the accident and you should get some medical attention immediately.”
The boy looked at Kricorian. He blinked. There was dried blood on his eyelids.
“Where did it happen?”
“Near here,” the boy answered.
“I know that—but where? How near here?”
“Half-mile or so.”
“Son, tell me where this tragedy happened!” Kricorian said squinting.
“On that sandy road behind the reservoir—where Doubloon runs into Corsair. Where they haven’t finished bulldozing.”
“You live around here then?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean sort of?” Kricorian scowled.
“I mean—I don’t live far—from here.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’ve never seen you either,” the boy replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Tobias.”
“Tobias what?”
“Tobias Myson.”
“Well . . . who else . . . was in the car? Are you sure they’re all dead?”
“Three others.”
“Who?” demanded Kricorian, his inflection getting away from him.
“You wouldn’t know them,” the boy said numbly.
“WHO are they?” repeated Kricorian too loudly.
“You’ll wake your wife,” the boy said, and blinked.
“My wife? She . . .” Kricorian lowered his voice. “How do you know about my wife?”
“I don’t. But you wouldn’t be living in a house like this—alone.”
“All right, all right. So, who else was in the car?”
“They’re still there. Dead. Jody . . . Kevin…and . . .”
“And?” Kricorian squirmed.
“Stevie. Only his head is gone.”
“Christ!” Kricorian groaned, trying to come to terms with the imagined scene. “What in hell were you doing out on that road at this hour—on a school night?”
The boy gave out a low grunt of laughter at this and repeated the words . . . “a school night.”
In Heaven, Everything Is Fine: Fiction Inspired by David Lynch Page 31
