The Wild Zone

by Joy Fielding

  Will shielded his eyes from the relentless sun as he left the cafe, imagining Jeff and Suzy embracing in the corner of every shadow of every tree as he headed north on Washington Avenue with no clear plan for where he was going.

  He couldn’t very well go back to the apartment. Kristin would take one look at him and know something had happened. Could he lie to her as easily as Jeff had? Could he tell her what Tom had told him?

  Was there even the slightest chance Tom was right?

  How would Kristin react? Will wondered. Would she care? Would she cry with him over their mutual betrayal and rage at the unfairness of it all, or would she dismiss it as nothing to get upset about and tell him not to take it to heart? “It doesn’t mean anything,” he could almost hear her rationalize.

  Except it did mean something. It meant something to him.

  And Jeff knew that.

  And he didn’t care.

  “A bet’s a bet, little brother,” Jeff would undoubtedly say.

  Was that really what this was all about?

  “Damn you, Jeff,” Will whispered under his breath. Damn you straight to hell.

  “YOU HAVE ONE hell of a nerve coming here,” Jeff said to the man standing in front of him. His voice was quiet and surprisingly steady considering what was going on inside his body—his nerve endings on fire, his muscles twitching painfully, his throat constricting, his heart thumping against the inside of his chest, threatening to burst.

  “I’d say that makes us even.” Dave Bigelow was smiling as he crossed his arms over his expansive chest. He was wearing a short-sleeved white T-shirt, navy knee-length nylon shorts, white socks, and expensive Nike runners.

  “What do you want?”

  “Decided it was time to get back in shape,” Dave said. “You mentioned the other day you were a trainer. I did some snooping around, heard some good things about you, thought I’d check it out for myself.”

  How much does he know? Jeff wondered. Had he been home, seen Suzy, beaten the truth out of her? Had he followed her this morning, seen her and Jeff at the restaurant, then followed them to the motel? “You look to be in pretty decent shape already,” Jeff told him, his eyes on Dave’s massive hands. Hands he uses to slap a helpless woman around, Jeff thought. Hands he uses to hold her down while he forces his way roughly inside her. You miserable piece of shit, he thought. I should break your fucking neck. What he said was, “I don’t think I’m the right trainer for you.”

  A look of bemusement filled Dave’s face. “Really? And why is that?”

  “Jeff . . . ,” Melissa cautioned him as Larry approached.

  “Problems?” Larry asked.

  How many times had he asked that lately?

  “Dr. Bigelow? I’m Larry Archer,” Larry said, extending his hand toward Dave. “We spoke on the phone this morning.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Dave shook Larry’s hand vigorously.

  “I see you’ve already met Jeff. Dr. Bigelow specifically asked for you,” Larry told him. “Said he’d heard some very good things.”

  “Unfortunately it seems that Jeff doesn’t feel he’s the right man for the job,” Dave said.

  Larry’s quick frown was evident, even in profile. It was even more pronounced full-face. “Really? And why is that?”

  “I just thought Dr. Bigelow might be happier dealing with the man in charge,” Jeff improvised.

  Larry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’m sure you’ll do a terrific job,” he said. “Enjoy your workout, Dr. Bigelow.”

  “Please call me Dave.”

  “Enjoy your workout, Dave.” Larry walked back to his client at the far end of the room.

  “You really want to do this?” Jeff asked Dave after Larry was out of earshot.

  “Lead the way,” Dave said.

  Jeff had to dig the heels of his sneakers into the hardwood floor to keep from flinging himself at Dave. One good kick to the groin, he was thinking, one good snap of his neck; that’s all it would take to render him as helpless as Suzy had been. The thought of that bastard’s hands on her flesh was making Jeff’s skin crawl. What the hell are you really doing here? What kind of game are you playing? Jeff asked him silently, deciding that whatever it was, he could play, too. And win. You want a workout, you bastard? I’ll give you a workout. The workout from hell, he thought, and smiled. “Suppose you warm up for a few minutes on the treadmill.”

  “Suppose I do,” Dave agreed, stepping onto the machine.

  Asshole, Jeff thought, turning it on and quickly increasing its speed from level one to level four. “I understand you were at the Wild Zone last night,” he said, upping the speed to level five, and then six.

  “Just thought I’d drop by, check the place out,” Dave acknowledged, jogging along easily.

  “Did that include checking out my girlfriend?”

  Dave looked genuinely surprised. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  Dave brought his eyebrows together at the bridge of his nose, as if trying to figure things out. “The bartender is your girlfriend? I had no idea.”

  Jeff increased the treadmill’s speed to level seven. “Thought you were a happily married man.”

  “Oh, I am,” Dave said. “Very happy.”

  “Happily married men don’t usually go around hitting on other women.”

  “Is that what she told you? That I was hitting on her? I’m sorry I gave her that impression. I honestly wasn’t,” Dave said as Jeff took the speed to level eight. “As I remember the conversation, she told me she did some modeling,” he continued, picking up his pace, still breathing with relative ease. “I happen to know this guy who’s a big-shot photographer. Shoots all the top fashion models. His pictures are in all the magazines. I offered to put the two of them in touch. That’s all.”

  “Uh-huh. How are you managing at this speed?” Jeff asked.

  “Walk in the park,” Dave said.

  “Think you can handle a little more?”

  “Bring it on.”

  Jeff increased the speed from level eight to level nine and then quickly to level ten, so that Dave was now running a brisk, six-minute mile. After two minutes, Dave was starting to breathe a little harder. That’s it, you miserable prick, you can huff and puff until your heart gives out. Jeff let him continue running in place for another two minutes, watching as Dave’s face turned from pink to red and perspiration started forming along the line of his scalp. He pushed the Off button only when he saw Larry watching him from the other end of the room. “Twenty push-ups,” he said, pointing to the floor.

  Dave smiled and instantly obliged, stretching his legs out behind him and bending his arms at the elbows, pushing himself off the floor with the palms of his hands.

  “Slower,” Jeff said, placing a forty-five-pound weight plate on Dave’s back. If Dave wanted him to “bring it on,” he’d be more than happy to oblige. What are you doing here, asshole? You think I’m as easy to intimidate as a woman half my size and weight? You think I’m gonna be impressed because you can do a few push-ups? You can impress me in hell, you conceited piece of crap, he continued silently. “Come down a little lower,” he said out loud. “Okay, grab these,” he said when Dave had finished his final push-up. The perspiration was dripping from Dave’s hairline down his cheeks as Jeff thrust a pair of thirty-pound dumbbells into his hands, then instructed him to do two minutes of walking lunges. “This is great for the heart rate, Doc. Not to mention the thighs,” he told him, noting Larry’s look of concern as Dave lunged by.

  “Okay, on your back,” Jeff instructed at the end of the two minutes, grabbing a stability ball and placing it between Dave’s feet. “You’re gonna do a set of a hundred crunches, transferring the ball from your feet to your hands.”

  “A hundred?”

  “Too much for you?”

  “Nah,” Dave said, lifting his legs and torso into the air simultaneously and transferring the ball from his feet to his h
ands. “Piece of cake.”

  “Good. This’ll get that stomach nice and flat. I’m noticing a bit of flab. I’m sure you want to keep middle-age spread at bay for as long as you can.”

  “I think I’m doing a pretty good job of that.”

  “Not bad,” Jeff said. “And speaking of jobs, how is it a busy doctor like yourself gets to take time off in the middle of the day?”

  “I’m skipping lunch.”

  “Probably not a bad idea. Go slower. Come up a little higher. Keep that chin tucked in.” You motherfucker. “That’s better.”

  “What else you got for me?” Dave asked when he was done with the crunches.

  “Set of barbell dead lifts, ten reps,” Jeff said, adding four plates to an already heavy steel bar, for a total of 225 pounds. “This should work your entire body.” If it doesn’t kill you first, Jeff thought. “How’s that? You okay with this?”

  “I can handle anything you dish out,” Dave said, grunting with the strain of his exertion, his ruby-red face now bathed in sweat. At the end of the ten repetitions, he grabbed his knees and doubled over, breathing hard.

  “Grab some water and follow me,” Jeff told him, scooping a twenty-pound medicine ball off the floor. The game’s not so much fun now, is it, asshole?

  Dave filled a conical paper cup with ice-cold water from the cooler by the side window and gulped it down. “Where are we going?”

  “Stairs.” Jeff tossed him the medicine ball as they exited the gym. “Up and down. Five minutes.”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Unless that’s too much.”

  Dave smiled, took a deep breath, and began jogging down the stairs. “Something smells good,” he said, then laughed. “And I don’t think it’s me.”

  “There’s a bakery on the ground floor.”

  “So I noticed. Maybe I’ll stop in when I’m done here, pick up some fresh pastries, surprise my wife with breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. Think she’d like that?”

  I think she’d like to see you dangling from an alligator’s jaws, Jeff thought. “Never been a big fan of pastry myself.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Dave said with a wink.

  “Three more minutes,” Jeff told him. “Is that as fast as you can go?”

  “You want faster, you’ll get faster,” Dave said, although he was almost crawling by the time he reached the top of the landing at the end of the five minutes. “Okay. What next?”

  Jeff led him back inside, pointed to a high bar. “A set of twelve chin-ups.”

  “That’s a pretty strenuous workout,” Larry commented under his breath to Jeff as Dave began swinging wildly back and forth on the bar after the sixth chin-up. “How are you doing?” he asked Dave. “Jeff’s not making you work too hard?”

  “I’m fine,” Dave spat out, trying to regain control of his legs.

  “Maybe you should go a little easy,” Larry whispered to Jeff.

  “Larry thinks I should take it down a notch,” Jeff said, starting to really enjoy himself. “What do you think?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  You’re a piece of shit, Jeff thought, smiling over at Larry as Dave all but collapsed in a sweaty heap at the conclusion of the exercise. “Okay. Two sets of dumbbell squats. You can manage fifty pounds, can’t you?” He thrust one fifty-pound weight in Dave’s right hand, joined immediately by a fifty-pound weight in the other. “How’s that?”

  “It’s good.”

  “Atta boy. Keep that back straight. Come down a little lower.”

  As soon as Dave finished the thirty squats, Jeff led him over to a nearby bench for two sets of fifty bench dips with two forty-five-pound plates resting on the tops of his legs, then had him ride a stationary bicycle all-out for five minutes at level fifteen.

  “I think that’s enough,” Dave managed to spit out at the conclusion of the exercise, his legs wobbling like Jell-O as Jeff led him to another bench at the far end of the room. “I should probably be getting back to work.”

  Jeff checked his watch. “We still have time left,” he said dismissively. “How about we do some negative presses? We’ll start with ten reps at two hundred pounds. Unless you don’t think you can manage it. . . .”

  Dave sank down on the bench, put his head between his still-wobbly knees, began gasping for breath.

  “You all right?”

  “I just need a minute.”

  “Take as long as you need.”

  “Everything all right here?” Larry asked, appearing at Dave’s side.

  Dave raised his head, sweat pouring from his forehead to his thighs as if from a pitcher. He looked as if he was about to pass out.

  “Get him some water,” Larry barked at Jeff.

  In the next second, Dave was on his feet and staggering toward the bathroom. The violent sound of his repeated retching soon filled the gym, competing with the rock music blaring from the speakers.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Larry demanded of Jeff.

  “He wanted a killer workout. I was just giving it to him.”

  “You were giving it to him, all right. What was that all about?”

  “You heard him—he insisted he could handle it.”

  “You’re the one who’s supposed to be the judge of that. Shit. Listen to him in there. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue our asses.”

  “He’s not going to sue.”

  “He’s in there puking his guts out.” Larry began pacing back and forth in frustration. “What are you smirking about?”

  “I’m not smirking.”

  “Look. I can’t deal with any more of your bullshit.”

  “I’m not smirking,” Jeff repeated, trying to stop his smile from spreading. Serves the bastard right, he was thinking. With any luck, he’d have a heart attack and die before the day was through.

  “You’re sarcastic with clients,” Larry was saying. “You call in sick when you’re obviously as healthy as a horse, you almost kill a guy because . . . what? You don’t like doctors?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Don’t bother. You’re finished here.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You’re fired. Now get out of here. I’ll send you a check for whatever it is I owe you. But I don’t want to see you around here ever again.”

  “Come on, Larry. You don’t think you’re overreacting?”

  “Just get out of here.”

  Shit, Jeff thought, standing for a minute in silence before walking toward the door.

  “Bye, Jeff,” Melissa whispered. “Call me sometime.”

  As Jeff turned back, he saw Dave come out of the bathroom. The doctor raised his hand slowly into the air and waved with his fingers. “Bye-bye,” he mouthed silently, then blew Jeff a kiss.

  TWENTY-THREE

  TOM WAS COUNTING DOWN the minutes until closing time when he saw Carter talking to a man near the front door of the store. The man was young, which wasn’t unusual in a place like the Gap, and wearing a suit and tie, which was. Tom pegged him as a wannabe–can’t be—wannabe be young, hip, with-it, cool; can’t be any of the above. The last thing Tom wanted was to get roped into a late-day makeover. He tried to disappear behind a floating rack of sleeveless summer dresses, but Carter’s eye proved too quick.

  “That’s him,” he heard Carter say, directing the man to where Tom was crouching.

  “Can I help you with something?” Tom asked, surfacing reluctantly and glaring at the young man, whose dishwater-blond hair was noticeably thinning on top. Wannabe-can’t-be-no-chance-in-hell, Tom thought.

  “Tom Whitman?” the man asked.

  Tom’s body stiffened. Since when had a potential customer called him by his name? “Yeah?”

  The man pulled a large manila envelope out of his brown suit jacket. “For you,” he said, then turned and walked away.

  “What the hell is this?” Tom called after him.

  The man quickly disappeared out the store’s fr
ont entrance.

  “Who was that?” Carter asked, approaching cautiously.

  Tom tore open the envelope, his eyes perusing its contents, flitting from one sentence to the next, unable to settle on any one phrase in particular.

  “Is that a restraining order?” Carter asked, leaning in closer.

  “That stupid bitch.”

  “Your wife took out a restraining order against you?”

  “She’s gonna be so sorry.”

  “According to this,” Carter said, adjusting his glasses as he pressed even tighter into Tom’s side, “you’re not allowed within three hundred yards of Elaine Whitman, her parents, or her children.”

  “My children,” Tom corrected.

  “Yeah, well, whosever they are, you can’t go within three hundred yards of them.”

  “The hell I can’t.”

  “If you do, you get arrested.”

  “That stupid cow.”

  “Hey, hey. Keep it down,” Carter cautioned, glancing warily around the still-crowded store. Several shoppers had stopped their browsing and were hovering nearby. “You don’t want the customers thinking you’re referring to any of them.”

  Tom crumpled the letter in his fist, then threw it angrily to the floor. “She’s not going to get away with this.”

  Immediately Carter scooped the paper up and began smoothing out the creases with his fingers. “Throwing things away doesn’t make them go away,” he advised Tom, returning the letter to his hands. “You have to be smart about this. You have to think everything through very carefully.”

  Tom reached into his back pocket for his cell phone, called Jeff at work. “What are you still doing here, jerk-off?” he asked Carter angrily.

  Carter took several steps back. “Just trying to help,” he said, managing to sound wounded and superior at the same time.

  “You want to help somebody? Help her.” Tom pointed to a teenage girl struggling with an armful of blouses. Carter immediately rushed to her rescue.

  “Elite Fitness,” a young woman’s voice announced in Tom’s ear.

  “Put Jeff on. It’s an emergency.”