by Jack Kinsley
— — —
Next stop was into the suite of his friendly giant, who hadn't been so friendly since their last handshake. Dallas had regressed back into the mysterious, perilous creature Travis had met the first day he arrived, and although his shallow charm had occasionally made an appearance over the last couple of days, it had lost its playfulness; there was a seriousness about him now that made Travis nervous. Of course, Travis took into consideration he had just hired the man to kill his wife (even forced his hand a little), but there was a sense of some terrible detail eating him from the inside out. Maybe he wasn't the killer he pretended to be. Maybe his stories were exaggerations...or entirely made up. And now he was obligated to commit the heinous act.
Dallas had all his belongings laid out on his bed, just as they had been when Lucy performed his bag check — minus the drugs, paraphernalia, and weapons. They weren't laid out with nearly as much organization as she'd used, but there was still an order to his possessions that Travis found humor in. Here he was, gathering and accounting all of life's necessities: a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, shaving cream, comb, a new bottle of Drakkar Noir, a small stack of cargo shorts, a few t-shirts (all a size too small), some boxer shorts with Calvin Klein written around the tops of the waistbands, two white wife-beaters (also a size too small), and a new long-sleeved dress shirt Dallas had purchased at Nordstrom even though Travis knew he couldn't wear it with anything — all of it apparently necessary for murder.
Life had never felt so ridiculous for Travis. It was sick, bizarre, and banal. But then his mind shifted to another question: why was he taking all his things?
"You need everything?" he asked Dallas, who'd come back from the bathroom with a small box of Q-tips and thrown them into the toiletry pile.
The giant didn't acknowledge his question, let alone his presence since he'd first walked in. A minute later, Travis accidentally got into his path when Dallas was on another trip to retrieve something from the bathroom. "There ain't much, I'm afraid," he finally said and met eyes with Travis. He shoved a stack of underwear into the mesh pocket of his suitcase lid.
I guess not, Travis thought, looking around his room, wondering if his giant had any intentions of coming back at all. There was little for him to take, but every last piece of him was leaving.
"We're going to stop by my place for the rest of it."
His comment drew a long steady look from Dallas until it registered what he meant. Then, he nodded and continued to pack. Up until now, Travis hadn't thought of returning anything else but the knife and the 9mm, but now he considered returning the meth (what was left of it) and his steroids. He believed his giant could use a good kick in the nostrils and a few stabs in his veins to fire up the sick son of a bitch waiting inside him; right now, he was nothing more than a mild-mannered, napping pit bull.
There was the possibility of giving him too much and him forgetting about Travis's conditions, of course, but Travis needed to see some conviction prior to them parting ways.
He decided not to wait and let him ask. "What would you like...specifically?"
This time Dallas understood immediately. He dropped his t-shirts into the case and turned to him. "Everythin', if you still got it?"
"I do, just not as much."
Dallas did a double take.
"Enough for what you need," Travis clarified.
Dallas nodded again, zipped his suitcase closed, and then squared up in front of Travis. His eyes locked onto him with a vicious bite. "I reckon I'll be startin' from scratch when I get back?"
"I'll make you whole again. I promise you, Dallas. No matter how long it takes. Okay?" And in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter how long it took, because there wouldn't be a Crystal Heights if the psychopath didn't pull this off.
Dallas yanked the suitcases from the bed and then walked out of the room. Travis trailed behind him.
— — —
Travis put Dallas up in the Malibu Motel — not the finest of accommodations, but it was on PCH, just south of Malibu Canyon Road and in proximity to the Victorian house. There was an ocean view from his west-facing room and a swimming pool where he could work further on his tan, contemplate the best course of action, and even get his feathers wet.
Travis didn't know if it was possible for him to be any tanner than he was, but one thing was certain — he was an unmistakable figure in an otherwise faceless crowd. This was a concern. Dallas's sheer size wrapped in weathered brown leather left little doubt that others would remember him: built like an ox, dark reptilian skin, bowling ball head, no hair, black jelly-bean eyes, and a pair of redwood tree trunks for legs. How was that for a police sketch? You'll find him... just look for that great head of his hovering a foot or two above everyone else. He'll most likely be charming the dickens out of an unsuspecting woman — but don't worry, he won't rape her until after he kills her.
They drove together to Travis's condo to pick up the rest of the supplies he'd forgotten. Travis knew it wasn't wise to be seen with Dallas at his condo, or having the giant know where he lived, but then, what plans actually worked out for Travis these days? Then, he remembered successfully saving Chili. That had worked out okay. And he'd had the added bonus of beating the shit out of Devon — a welcomed hiccup that had proven to be quite therapeutic, for both parties, in the long run. He had relived the memory on several occasions: delivering blows to the red target on the sack, hearing Devon's nose crunch underneath it like popcorn, and the echo of the light saber cracking off the top of his head. Without that release, Travis believed he might have been forced to follow the ancient practice of trepanation and fire a hole in his own head to release his evil spirits.
As they drove into his complex and slowly bounced over the single speed bump on the street, Dallas leaned forward in his seat to get a better look at the community of condos. There was no mistaking his opinion. His large fat face curled back on itself as if to say, You live in this shithole?
"Not what you were expecting, huh?" Travis told him. "Number nineteen on my list of divorce grievances. Forget tornadoes and typhoons, nothing has the power to rip apart a man's life like a scorned woman."
"Thinkin' it's their God-given right to fuck with us." The giant lowered his window and spat.
They were among the few words he'd spoken since he and Travis had left the rehab, and it comforted Travis to hear the venom in his voice. Needing to hear more, he prodded Dallas further.
"Sounds like you know what divorce is all about?" Travis asked.
"Nope. Never married the whore. But we was engaged." He looked over at Travis with a telling grin. "She didn't live long enough to make it to the weddin'." He faced forward again, expressionless.
This is better, Travis thought. Much better. You keep riding that cold, dark rail. Take that nightmare train to wherever it is you need to go.
As they banked left down his street, a rolling shaft of sunlight shot into the car. The giant turned toward him and slitted his eyes against the punishing light. Travis could just see into his pair of lacerations; two black incisions leading into the depths of hell.
They pulled up the drive and into the garage. Travis killed the engine and asked Dallas to remain in the car. He nodded once in agreement. The moment Travis stepped out, he heard Willy calling to him from across the large rectangle of lawn. The boy waved to him with one hand, holding Chili's chew ball in the other; the pup danced and jumped impatiently around his legs, trying to get it from him.
Travis began waving hello back to him and then pressed his cell phone up to his ear as if he was on a call, and turned the same wave into a goodbye. He went to the back wall, punched the garage door button, and the outside light slowly diminished, leaving only a cold white glare from the fluorescent circle above. It gave the stare from the giant inside the car a ghostly glow.
Travis had forgotten he'd locked the adjoining garage door into his house, and ended up cramming himself up against the door with the handle stiff in his hand. Dammit
. He drew his keys from his pocket, dropped them, picked them back up, and then poked a key into the knob. He hightailed it into the house and into his bedroom, where he rifled through a heap of dirty laundry in the closet and came up with the shoebox in hand. Cradling it like a football, he began to run back out of the house when his cell buzzed inside his pocket and sent him into a one-eighty spin, as if he was avoiding an invisible player in the hallway.
"Fuck a duck!" he shouted. Always on cue.
He ripped the cell from his pocket with half a mind to smash it to the ground, but then saw it was Sarah. Fuck two ducks!
He answered it and heard himself breathing heavily. "Yep?"
"Where are you?" Her voice was suspicious and a little shaky.
"Currently, at my place." He regretted saying it the moment it left his lips.
"Why are you there?"
Fuck three ducks.
"It doesn't matter," he shot back more sternly than he meant to. "Sorry, I needed to pick up something...for Bella. I mean, for Ana... I mean something for Bella for Ana." He shook his head, chastising himself. "You know how she is. It's always got to be right away. What's up?"
Silence hung on the other end, telling him she didn't believe a word of it.
"Is Dallas still with you? Why are you breathing so heavily? Have you been smoking again?"
"One at a time, Sarah." He closed his eyes and replayed the image of him rocketing two jabs into Devon's bloodstained sack. He took a deep relaxing breath and said, "Yes, of course, he's waiting outside in the car. And no, I haven't been smoking. And what is the reason for this call, Mother?" Whoops, it slipped.
"Mother?" she said coolly on the other end. "If I were your mother..." And she trailed off, only to come back and say, "Forget it."
"What is it? I'm sorry to be rushed, but I have Dallas waiting for me and I've got Ana riding me. It's just a bad time if it's not important." It was already becoming a list of excuses he was giving Sarah, and he knew they wouldn't last much longer if he kept his bullshit up. He was forming yet another excuse when her voice shot into his ear.
"It's Betsy. She's not doing well. I mean, really really not well. I called the doctor in, but I don't think she has much time left."
He walked over and put the shoebox on the kitchen counter. "Is she in pain?"
"No, she said she was okay, but she's got that look about her. It's not going to be long, Travis. I've seen it before."
He recalled the second night he'd spent with Sarah. In the darkness, she'd cried in his arms while she spoke about missing her mother.
"I want you here, Travis. Please," she whispered into the phone.
"Okay, Sarah. Okay. Let me get Dallas squared away, and I'll be in as soon as I can. Let Betsy know I'm coming back... maybe thirty, forty minutes — an hour at most. Maybe she'll wait."
If that's even possible, he thought. He'd heard stories about this before: a person waiting for a relative or loved one to show up before expiring. But did that really happen? Was there some final internal switch made accessible when someone was that close, giving them the option of hanging on a little longer? He thought maybe so, but then again, it was always the living who told these stories.
"Okay. No more than an hour, Travis. Promise me."
"I promise." They ended the call.
He wanted to be there for Sarah and Betsy, and considered just dropping Dallas off in the Malibu Motel parking lot and heading straight over, but he wanted his wife dead just as much. The two of them still had a lot to discuss. They had a loosely formulated plan that allowed Dallas some improvisation once he tracked her for a day or two and got the 'lay of the land,' as the giant referred to it, but there were important details to be addressed prior to unleashing his pit bull in her direction. He couldn't cut any corners and lose sight of what was at stake for him. It was his last hope.
Driving over to the motel, Travis began to rehash their plan. "So, I know you're going to need a couple days to get the 'lay of the land' before we have something totally concrete."
Dallas only flicked his eyes at him in response.
"And if you think of a better way, or have any ideas you want to bounce off me..." Travis paused. Still nothing from the giant. "You can call me anytime. Night, day, middle of the night — whenever. And whatever is on your mind, no matter how minor a change in plan you think it might be, I would like to hear about it." Travis knew he was spinning his own wheels, and regurgitating everything in his own head was making himself sick.
Dallas only grunted — and that was most likely only a natural reaction from shifting his weight in the car seat from one butt cheek to the other.
By the time they reached their destination, he could see Dallas had lost patience and couldn't wait to get out of the car — which was fine with Travis. He didn't like sharing such a confined space with the beast, breathing the same air. It felt like the contagion of psychopathy. He could almost feel his mind backflip; he pictured a tortoise on its back, legs pawing helplessly at thin air.
But there was one more point he had to drive home before driving off, and it was sure to piss on Dallas's bonfire — again. Travis just came right out with it.
"I need your promise that there'll be no acts of rape — before or after death."
It drew the giant's face tight and red; his neck grew fat and inflamed, pushing his carotid artery up out of his skin like two provoked serpents. For a moment, Travis thought he might strike him inside the idling car. He wished he hadn't brought it up, but felt there was no choice if he was ever going to be able to live with himself. There was still some respect to be given to the dead, and he believed there were many shades of grey in matters of forgiveness (from the Lord above and from himself). He would need those tenths of degrees if he was going to break the sixth commandment.
He had broken the third commandment on many occasions, almost on a daily basis, but taking the Lord's name in vain seemed incomparable to killing someone. He did recall learning in catechism at Saint Irenaeus Church that 'a sin is a sin,' no matter what. But were they listed in order or importance? He didn't think so — since murder was pretty far down the list. And there were many places in the Bible that allowed for killing: if someone was harming you first (certainly Ana had made her intentions clear); killing an enemy in a war situation (certainly Travis felt he was at war); and ending the life of another who was in extreme pain and terminally ill. This one was a bit of a stretch, but Travis concluded he would be terminally ill from all her bullshit and reverted back under the protection of the first clause.
Travis wasn't going to be labeled a murderer, but rather a person acting in self-defense. It was the age-old problem since the Bible had been penned: interpretation. Travis had no problem finding refuge inside its muddled doctrine — just as long as Dallas didn't go sticking his eleventh finger where it didn't belong. This was going to be the giant's personal commandment: Thou shalt not poke your cock in anything unsolicited or dead.
"Do I have your word?" Travis asked him a second time, holding the rental car keys from him.
"You gonna give me them damn keys or not?" The giant had his oily catcher's mitt out in front of him and waved his fat fingers to cough them up.
"I'm going to need to hear it." He knew it was a ridiculous notion to ask someone to kill their wife and still maintain some kind of moral compass, but he needed to hear it.
The giant grunted and waved the keys into his palm again.
Travis wasn't sure if that constituted a proper verbal agreement, but dropped them into his hand anyway. "Okay, it's the navy Honda Pilot right over there." He pointed at the SUV parked crookedly outside a pair of solid white lines in the lot. The rental company had guaranteed delivery, but said nothing about a decent parking job.
Dallas waved for a second set of keys that Travis produced from his pocket. There was an orange key ring of floatation foam attached to them that read Hooters. He kept them dangling above the spread of Dallas's massive palm like a carrot and told him, "It
's a 1957 Chris-Craft Day Cruiser, twenty-eight feet and all-natural wood. You have to be careful with this boat, because it's not mine, and it's my ass if something happens to it."
Dallas snatched the keys from him. "I said it before, damn near raised on a boat. Now gimme the damn phone and quit snivelin' like a little girl so we can part our ways. For Christ's sake, you California boys are as dumb as they come."
Travis appreciated his insult. It lightened the mood and it was a relief to once again hear the twisted spirit he'd grown accustomed to. He leaned over and popped the glove compartment open. A Straight Talk Samsung prepaid smartphone nearly jumped out of it and into the giant's lap. Dallas grabbed it before Travis got his hands on it.
"You have unlimited text and minutes on there, and I'll be using one as well. I already programmed my new number in there and... Oh!" He grabbed a couple printed sheets stapled together from the glove box, "Here's a map of the marina." It was an aerial pic taken from Google Maps, a medium-sized red X drawn on it. Travis pointed at it and began to say, "X—"
"X marks the spot. I got it."
"Yes, and there's a picture." Travis flipped the page and showed him the black and white photo of the boat. On the back of the stern was its name written in bold, white letters: Ship for Brains. Frank had always enjoyed a good sense of humility.
Without any sign of interest, Dallas yanked the page from Travis's grip, folded it clumsily with one hand, and shoved it deep into one of his cargo side pockets. Travis didn't appreciate the lack of response, but carried on the same. Time was ticking and he needed to get back to Betsy and Sarah.
"I recommend you go visit the slip beforehand. Take the boat out for a test spin if you want to. The owner's in Europe and won't be back for another week, so she's yours at any time, just be mindful of the gas. It might actually do you some good to get some—"
"The shoebox?" Dallas interrupted him.
