by Jack Kinsley
"Good idea." Sarah eyed the shoebox. "Lord knows what's been on the other end of those items."
— — —
His first stop was at the Colony House liquor store. He could only hope he'd be lucky enough for them to have the exact vintage he was looking for. They did: Opolo Mountain Zinfandel Paso Robles 2012. It was one of Ana's favorites. She and Travis had purchased a case of it during their last family trip up north (their very last family trip, actually), and she had liked it so much, they had ordered two more cases a few months afterwards. The bottles had shown up at the door a few days before Travis and Ana had the final ugly fight that sent him packing.
His next stop was Home Depot for a roll of duct tape, but once he was in the parking lot, he remembered he had a roll in his garage back at the condo. He had used it to silence a tear in the hose of his wet/dry shop vac. The hole had made a god-awful sound, and the duct tape had done an amazing job of shutting it up. He hoped it would work as well on Ana.
He revised the list in his mind countless times (he hadn't written anything down). Just when he was sure he hadn't forgotten anything, he cursed at the last item needed and made an illegal u-turn to go to Big 5. There, he purchased a pair of 45-pound Marcy dumbbells. The eager young salesman helping him tried to upsell him into buying an entire set, including the rack to hold them, but Travis figured the total weight of ninety pounds weighed nearly as much as Ana, and was confident it would do the trick. He told the salesman, "Two dumbbells are enough for this dumbbell" and walked out with two strained shoulders. Yeah, they would do the trick.
When he arrived at his condo, he caught sight of Willy and Chili on the greenbelt playing with one of the rubber balls he had purchased for them. It was a sight that felt right, and they exchanged a wave at a distance. Chili even gave him a bark.
Travis backed his car into the garage and then brought his purchases into the house. He nearly dropped one of the dumbbells when he kicked the elevated step at the door that led from the garage into the house. His big toe started throbbing with a vicious heartbeat. Once he set the pair down, he staggered toward Bella's closet. Inside, he rifled through a stack of Disney blankets. In between one of them, he spotted his suit cover carrier bag. It was made of heavy-duty material for international travel, and was roughly seventy inches long — plenty of head room. He had used it when he visited Ana in Bucharest, and now found it ironically appropriate for this occasion. The sticky airline tickets were still wrapped around the handles. He tore these off, and in a moment of paranoia, he rolled them into small dense balls and flushed them down the toilet. He stared at the bowl for an entire minute, waiting to see if they would come back to haunt him. When they didn't, he gave it a last flush for insurance.
Back in the room, he unzipped the bag and saw a last ticket inside. He impatiently grabbed it, thinking it was another trace of evidence, but it was only a guarantee advertising the industrial-strength zipper. Comforting, but he would still duct tape the shit out of the bag — wrap it like a mummy once everything was inside.
He stood staring down at everything lined up in front of him. Everything he thought he would need. It was nearly a flashback to the gridded items Lucy had laid out on Dallas's bed. Actually, some of the same items were staring back at him — namely the gun and the knife (just in case). He kept the drugs in his pocket, as they seemed a bit silly to put out in the mix. He was already cursing himself for bringing in the dumbbells, since he was only going to have to carry them back and put them in the trunk again. He wasn't really cut out for this shit and he knew it — plus he had taken too much Adderall again.
Travis grabbed the neck of the wine bottle, carried it into the kitchen, and opened it. He poured a glass and let it sit on the counter to breathe for a while.
He then pulled his cell from his pocket and called his friend, Frank Larkin, who had been a past client and was local to the area. Frank had a tremendous success story, not only financially, but he hadn't touched liquor or hookers since he'd left Crystal Heights four years ago. During that time, he'd doubled the size of his import business (expanding into the Southeast Asian markets) and remarried a woman twenty years his junior. He'd recently become father to twin boys at the ripe old age of fifty-two, and although his busy life slowed him down a bit, he and Travis still managed to catch up over coffee and the occasional cigar.
More importantly, Frank owned a 1957 Chris-Craft twenty-six-foot Sport Express, a beautiful boat he kept in a slip in Marina Del Rey. Travis had been on it numerous times. Sometimes, they'd just sit there and not go anywhere, while other times they would venture into open waters. Frank had shown him how to operate it, pointing out the few quirks that could arise, and had told Travis he could use it anytime.
Travis had invited Ana out for a cruise last February in a last-ditch attempt at reconciliation, but she'd refused, saying it was too cold that time of year — this coming from a woman who'd endured freezing temperatures in Eastern Europe every winter for most of her life. She would have no say in the matter tonight.
Travis grew impatient as he listened to the phone ring endlessly on the other end of the line. Don't disappear on me, Frank. Not now. You're the biggest cog in this wheel. Then, he remembered that Frank had given him an alternate number to reach him. Unfortunately, that would require a phone call to Sarah; she would have to look it up in Frank's file — not exactly a conversation Travis wanted to get into now.
He was just about to end the call when he heard Frank's voice break in on the other end. He sounded like a man who had the world by the tail, with his happy-go-lucky attitude and infectious spirit. It immediately filled Travis with hope. They shared a few cordial exchanges about recent events and him having a touch of A-G-E, and then he told Travis he'd hidden the key under the cushion of the driver's seat. It wasn't the most original hiding place, but that was how Frank rolled in his new lifestyle: if you didn't think about bad things happening, then they simply wouldn't happen. Besides, Frank could buy twenty boats without thinking twice about it.
Travis thanked him for the favor and then classic Frank from his whoring days replied, "Just make sure to clean up your mess after you get her spread-eagle."
"She's not that kind of girl," Travis told him. "She'll clean up the mess herself."
They shared a last dirty laugh and ended the call.
Travis went into the kitchen and took a long slow inhale of the zinfandel. It had opened up nicely and the warm, engaging air of sweet and spice flooded his senses. He took a sip, letting it pool in his mouth and around his tongue, then rest for a moment at the back of his throat. It was dangerous, seductive — the kind of threat that could imprison him all over again, if he let it. He spat it out in the sink and stepped back from the singing Siren. He had to force himself to be objective, and simply registered the existing unique notes of the wine. He took another sip, recorded its taste, and then spat it out a second time.
He then placed two white, hundred-milligram Seroquel tablets in the middle of a dark wood cutting board. With a butcher knife, he chopped them up and then used the side of the blade to crush them into a very fine dust. He carefully scraped the powder into the wine glass, stirred it with a tea spoon, and watched it magically vanish inside the deep purple. He thought to taste it again right away, but decided to let it rest and have a cigarette on the patio.
A year ago, a meager ten-milligram dose had nearly knocked Ana unconscious — to the point that he'd had to carry her upstairs and put her to bed. Travis figured after just a few sips, she would consume at least that much Seroquel this time. It would be enough to knock her into a useless, vulnerable state. From there, he could carry out his plan. Even if she hadn't had enough, she'd most likely still be sluggish, and he could always strike her across the back of the skull with the butt of the 9mm and turn off any remaining lights.
Ana wasn't always consistent in her actions, led mostly by her emotions, but she was a creature of habit when it came to her nightly bath followed by a glass of red wine
— only the minutiae of daily life a husband of five years would know. Every night she tucked Bella into bed, poured herself a glass of red, and then left it to breathe on the kitchen counter while she soaked in a bubble bath, her headphones usually pumping some crappy Romanian pop music. Then, she'd wrap herself in a robe and curl up on the couch with her wine and then watch more Romanian crap on the international TV channels.
Travis took a last long drag from his cigarette, nearly smoking the butt of it, distracted at the troubling thought that she might no longer follow the same routine. What would he do then? It would have to be brute force, he heard a voice that wasn't entirely his own. Yes. There won't be any turning back.
Travis tasted the wine and immediately wished he hadn't smoked the last cigarette, thinking it may have hindered his taste buds. He spat the wine into the sink, rinsed his mouth out with a glass of water, waited another five minutes, and then tasted again. It didn't tell a different story. Not much of one, anyway. Perhaps a hint of bitterness, but he didn't believe it was enough for her to deem it bad and throw it out. He spat a final time into the sink, poured the rest of the good wine down the sink (in order to silence the Sirens), and then used a funnel to pour the tainted wine back into the empty bottle. He pushed the cork in deep enough that he could still remove it with his teeth.
He performed a last inventory check and then placed everything in the trunk of his car. He got sloppy with the duct tape and tossed it lamely at the trunk from a few feet away. It fell short and bounced off the bumper, rolled out the garage, down the drive, and sped out into the street. The sight of it running in plain view sent him into a panic. It was an ordinary item that could be used for many intended purposes (like the shoeboxes of the world), but for him it was like a bullhorn announcing to the neighborhood a part of his plan. Travis had imagined a piece of that tape across Ana's crappy mouth numerous times, an image burned into him, and it was as if she was wearing it now and log rolling into the street.
When he finally caught up to it, he tucked it under his armpit and walked briskly back up the drive.
Just what the hell am I doing? he asked himself. Reality was setting in. He zipped the tape securely inside the suit carrier bag and slammed the trunk shut. I can't do this. Just what the hell am I doing? And then a voice answered from the void, You're saving your life. Now quit being such a pussy and finish this! Everything will be yours again tomorrow.
— — —
Back at Crystal Heights, Travis slipped through the front door unnoticed. He desperately wanted to avoid any distractions as he continuously reviewed the items in the trunk of his car, making sure everything was in place for tonight. So far so good...everything accounted for. As he walked down the west wing toward a common bathroom, he started from step one and went through the entire plan once again. An alarm went off inside him and stopped him in his tracks.
Bella's key!
He had forgotten the key to Bella's bedroom at the Victorian house. He had the key to get into the backdoor, but not her key.
Ironically, it was Ana who had requested the doorknob set be reinstalled in reverse and the lock be put on the outside of the door. She had argued that the control of the lock should be kept in the hands of the parents and not the child. It was supposedly a form of punishment practiced while she had grown up in Bucharest, although he had never heard of such a tradition and assumed it was only a practice in Ana's family. As strange as it sounded, he was happy he'd agreed to it. Tonight, Bella wouldn't be locked in as a form of punishment, but rather for her own protection while he carried out his plan. She was a sound sleeper and almost always slept through the night — she would probably never know it was locked anyway.
But where had he put the key? Where had he seen it last?
Suddenly Lucy was standing in front of him in the hallway. Her mouth was moving, but he didn't compute a word of it.
"What are you asking me?" he finally asked.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Martin, but I wanted to let you know that I uh...I was trying one of those new pomegranate drinks we got, I hope that's okay, I know they're for clients, but I just wanted to try one and—"
"Lucy," he stopped her by holding up a hand, as he usually did — but today he saw himself wrapping it around her throat. "What happened? One more sentence, that's all you're getting."
She took a moment to construct it and then told him, "I spilled it while doing laundry and stained a couple of bed sheets." It was concise and informative, and he was proud of her, until she added, "There are red stains that I can't get out now."
Travis just about lost it. Where was that damn key?
"Lucy, go ask the fucking maid," he told her. "It's her job anyway." He paused for a moment, regained his composure and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm very busy now and I need to speak with one of our clients."
Travis looked at Betsy's bedroom door, the closest to him, opened it and went inside — he only hoped she was sleeping.
He closed the door quietly behind him, but heard Betsy's voice immediately. "Hello, dear? I was just thinking about you."
"Hi, Betsy. Sorry I didn't knock, but I didn't know if you were sleeping or not. I wanted to check in on you. How are you feeling today?"
"I'm okay, honey. But I think God put me back at the end of his line again. Or people just keep cutting in front of me." She sat up a little in bed with great difficulty. "He'll get to this old broad soon, though."
Travis loved that Betsy was so forthright. There was no need to sugarcoat anything about her condition; the time she had left didn't allow it, and she would have certainly called him out if he had tried.
"Come sit with me for a spell," she invited him.
"Sure, I'd like that," he said, honestly pleased he'd walked into her suite unplanned. He pulled up a chair that had become a permanent fixture next to her bedside.
"Where's your nurse?" he asked.
"I sent her outside for a bit. I couldn't bear her staring at me another minute while she kept checking her watch, wondering exactly what time I was going to die." She laughed a little.
"I can get you a different nurse if you want."
"No, she's actually very sweet. I'm just teasing." She coughed a bit and when she collected herself, she said, "I still have a few things to tend to, regarding my will — taking care of those who've been good to me." She patted Travis's arm. "I already sent my house staff back to their families, but I know where they can be reached."
"Sounds like a lucky bunch," he told her. His mind returned to the missing key again. Just where the hell did he leave it? But his thoughts returned to Betsy when she placed her hand on his arm.
"They were a good bunch," Betsy said. "I had quite the cast of characters. You know what Camella told me before leaving? She was a feisty maid, that one. At first, she wouldn't listen and go back home, so I told her the last face I'd see in this world wasn't going to belong to the woman who scrubbed my toilets. And you know what she told me? 'Good! Because I'm not taking out the last bag of trash!'"
It started a small fit of laughter, which grew into something troublesome and dangerous, shaking her very core as she gasped for breath. Travis was ready to jump from his chair and get the nurse, but Betsy held his arm to say no.
It took her nearly a minute to settle again. When she finished, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and said, "Oh, I'm going to miss that one."
"I can only imagine your hiring process — more concerned about them keeping up with your humor than keeping your house."
Betsy winked at him.
She went on to describe in detail what she was leaving her staff. Some of them had been with her for decades, nearly a lifetime of servitude; for the older ones it meant retirement, while the younger ones could use the resources to find a better life through higher education. It was an actual clause for her youngest chef, who had the ability but not the degree, and Betsy didn't want anything holding her back.
The bulk of her fortune, a staggering sum, was going to the South
ern California Foster Family & Adoption Agency, the same organization that had facilitated the adoption of her own son.
Betsy laughed excitedly when Travis asked her rhetorically, "Do you know how many foster parents will be driven crazy by their newly adopted children?"
"Parenthood is such a pain in the ass, and I can only hope they'll have me to thank for it," she said with her usual coffee-shop waitress wit. "It's my most cherished of all life's experiences."
The rest of Betsy's fortune — still a shocking amount — would be split among numerous charities: a few local soup kitchens, her neighborhood Catholic Church, the Salvation Army, Save the Children Federation, Teach for America, Cancer Research Institute, and Goodwill Industries International. Her total donations would be somewhere in the neighborhood of ninety million.
"You'll be leaving your footprint in countless ways and in countless lives," he told her.
"But money is funny," she said. "In the end it doesn't buy you more time, happiness, or the guarantee of friendship and family. And I know everyone must say that." She gave him another wink. Her skin seemed to be getting thinner daily, revealing an intricate network of veins. "But I still wouldn't give it all up, not while I'm alive. I haven't lost all my marbles. Not yet, anyway. But..." She considered a thought that could have been written invisibly on the ceiling, and then added, "But...maybe tomorrow I'll tell you different."
He could see her energy depleting — the way her eyelids grew heavy, partially closed, lifted, and then grew heavier still. She was about to fall asleep in front of him, but before she did, her eyes opened again and she told him, "It's a terrible thought to die alone," and then she drifted, her chest rising and falling in consistent, shallow breaths. He continued to hold her hand while she slept, and he thought long about what she'd said.
