Deadweight

by Robert Devereaux

  A thud in the next room. Another. He’d been testing the axe. Now he was using it. It wasn’t fair: Wolf was dead, but she felt drained in the process, and she feared her time had run out. Dragging herself off the bed, she tugged at Wolf’s body, scudded it inch by inch along the floor, three feet, then four. Then she slid the throw rug back into place and rocked him to and fro onto it, paws X’d over like a sacrificial lamb, head shifting here and there like a bloody afterthought. She couldn’t remember being this drained ever. She struggled him into his nap position, careful to hide his newly bloodied mouth under one paw, but it took forever, and any moment that latch would lift and the door would open.

  What did it matter? She’d lost. Might as well crawl to him right now, beg him to make it as swift and painless as possible. Instead she stumbled to the bed, wiping as much blood off her arm as she could with the inside hang of the bedspread, and collapsed onto it. As the springs jounced, the bedroom door clicked open. He stood there in shadow, the blade of the axe dripping blood, its handle’s stiff pride holding no apology, its head as blunt and no-nonsense as Fearless Fosdick.

  “It’s time,” he said, his words revving up like a rewound Victrola, slurred and not quite in focus.

  She said nothing, strangely calm in the face of her death. Not uncaring, she thought. Just emptied out.

  “I said it’s time.” No rise in pitch, nor louder than his first summons. Something off about him. Coming out of the shadows, he was bare-chested in bloody jeans, his face a red blur.

  “No,” she said. “I won’t do it. I won’t.”

  ***

  Frank lay in bed, wondering if this was what being in shock felt like. The digits on his clock-radio bled into the graying room: 7:41. But the sun was just about ready to set and its last glow lit the closed blinds with bands of pressed light. The spectacle of Nona came rushing in again, but the head was Karin’s head, and he let the foul image wash through and vanish as he had uncountable times before.

  The bedroom door was shut. Not their usual practice. In fact it had been one of the early ways, so said Karin, in which Frank had differentiated himself from Danny, the open door into the darkness of the house symbolizing for her a new openness in her life, a new sense of safety and security. But none of those things existed now. No one was safe in this lousy world.

  He had closed the door to shut out the horror of the front rooms, the endless stream of strangers who had made his home a public place, ants clustered about a crumb of cake and then gone, measuring, photographing, asking him one question after another, then cleaning it all up, all except the images that refused to leave him alone. Wood like smoke, that’s how the door seemed; shut out nothing at all, the gore and violence seeped in through the walls and the joke of a door, flimsy stuff like the hull of an airplane whose windows let in at once the beautiful lull of cloud wisp and chessboard ground below, and the scream of shit-I’m-a-mile-high-and-I’m-going-to-fall. It amazed him now, how Karin could possibly have wanted, after what she had suffered and done here, to hang on to this house. He’d been a fool to give in to her, to believe that new paint, new paper, new furnishings, even a healthy rush of plant life, could transform this place into a haven for the two of them. He couldn’t imagine ever going to the fridge again. He would have to stand right where Jimmy’s mutilated body had lain, right there with his feet thrust through the ghost of him, imagining missed flecks of blood hiding under the handle or down around the edges where his pajama bottoms brushed. Christ, he’d never eat again.

  His mind veered to the table. Comfort of avoidance, yes, but something more. Whenever he brought the table to mind, the note from Karin, there was a tug at his brain, a small boy yanking weakly at his coat, patiently repeating, “Hey, Mister,” over and over again. It was stronger now, so strong—and sleep so impossible—that Frank flung back the covers and switched on his bedside lamp. He put on a robe, empty motions, it was the table he needed to see and all else faded for him. But walking down the hallway was a struggle he could scarcely endure. He had come through here, him and his dog. He’d dragged Karin along here and she was with him now, and the images that violated his head made him break down into weeping right there in the hallway, just past the bathroom, sobbing with his forehead on his fists against the wall and choking out, “Keep it together, Frank, keep it together.” When the spell was finally past, he fixed again on the kitchen table.

  He turned on light after light. Same damned place, the gathering gloom of night doing nothing to soften it. The miasma of death was still in the air, like lingering vomit smells in the nostrils hours after you’ve done the nasty deed. They’d taken the note but disturbed nothing else. The plants were still there in place. It was the arrangement that had pulled him out here. Something was different and possibly significant about them. What was it? These four, the ones you could almost imagine were arced around the note, seemed out of place: The fern to the right, the nephrolepis exaltata, belonged much closer to the window. As for the cineraria on the far left, he’d been used to seeing its brilliant pink flowers speak from the center of the table, not out on the edge. The pilea next to it—he and Karin had most often referred to it by one of its other names, the aluminum plant—had been much closer to the window. And the banana plant, broad green leaves sheathing out from its central stem, had up to now fiercely clung to its coveted spot on the far lip nearest the window.

  Frank tried to meet the nag halfway, to coax it out, to fix fiercely on the little nativity scene before him—white crèche of Karin’s note gone—then to relax as best he could and let it float in. Maybe there was something about the context of these four plants that would unlock the secret Karin had left. He knew there was intent here, a meaning beyond the forced scrawl. Karin was never less than mindful about anything she did with plants. Watering them, feeding them, caressing them, arranging them about the house and in the backyard: every bit of it carried her life into them and theirs into her. He’d thought it a quirk at first but he swore he could predict her mood by a glance at this table. There was fear and despair in these four, yes, but anger and defiance too. She had outsmarted the bastard who had her now and she knew it. Something in the choice of these plants signified: the cineraria, the aluminum plant, the banana plant, the nephrolepis. They blared at him, but he was deaf. He spoke their names, ran his hands over them the way he’d seen Karin do it, brought his face to them and felt the cool green and silver of the leaves, the tender pink petals, the brittle tickle of fern against his cheek. Then he backed off again, relaxed into his advocate’s stance, hands gripping the table edge like the rail of a jury box, his four unreadable jurors needing to be convinced to give their verdict—and it came to him all at once, the names, the order. No impatiens, no iris. She’d either been constrained by time or by space, perhaps both, in making her selection. But she’d come as close as she could to spelling “cabin” and her choice of the banana plant—the “Chiquita Lake” connection reinforced, one last goad—cinched it, particularly as the browallia blue bells and two varieties of begonia were huddled right behind the cineraria, almost resentful at being passed over.

  Frank picked up the phone. Slowed himself down just enough to punch in the numbers. Two rings.

  “Rocklin police.”

  “I have to speak to Joe Caldone right away.”

  The guy on the other end, putting on his best public-servant voice, said the sergeant wasn’t available right now, but maybe someone else—

  “This is Frank Tanner,” he broke in.

  “Oh, the one whose—”

  “Yes. I know where she’s been taken and I know Joe’s out on a . . . I know he’s in a squad car somewhere, and I need to find him quick.”

  “Where did you say she was holed up?”

  “I didn’t say. And she’s not holed up. She’s been kidnapped, taken to our cabin at Chiquita Lake.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “Out Auburn way, beyond Cool through Greenwood and Georgetown. Listen, Joe kno
ws how to get there. He and Laura—”

  “Got an address for that?”

  “Address? It’s a cabin in the woods, for chrissakes! Look, you need to call Joe. Have him phone me. I’ll wait here half an hour, then I’m on my way.”

  “No need to get riled, mister. I’ll do what I can.”

  Frank apologized and hung up, praying the guy—left to tend shop while everyone with a shred of competence was on this stakeout—wouldn’t linger over the coffee station on his way to the radio.

  Frank dressed quickly. He wondered how the son-of-a-bitch had known about the cabin. It wouldn’t be the sort of thing Karin would be likely to let slip nor even to be asked about during a kidnapping. And come to think of it, who the hell would want to kidnap her in the first place? Was someone trying to get back at him through her? Right. That sort of thing happened plenty in the movies but never in real life.

  He reached up into his closet for the red-white-and-blue Reebok box. Taking out the Colt .38, he sat on the bed and loaded the damned thing, never imagining he’d ever need it and wishing he’d taken his instructor’s advice and signed up for regular target practice. Fuck the inventors of weapons everywhere, Frank thought, vile sons-of-bitches who’d made manifest the worst part of the human spirit and wrapped steel—and worse—around words and fists. He had no idea what sort of firepower he was about to confront—he knew the .38 Special he held in his hand was no match for some of the shit out there—but he prayed it would be enough, and mostly he prayed that Karin was safe and would stay that way until he reached her. Then the thoughts of brutality against his beautiful woman welled up again and he had to put the gun down on the bed sheets until no more tears came. He blew his nose and cursed himself for being less than a man and the phone for not ringing.

  He looked at the clock. Eight on the button. Only ten minutes had gone by? Impossible. But his watch said the same. He filled his pockets: wallet, key ring, spare cartridges, coins. He paced, staying in the bedroom, once again spooked by the house. “Come on, Caldone, get on the horn.” Five after. What might have happened to Karin in those five minutes? What might happen to her in the next five?

  Fuck it, he was on his way. Joe would find the cabin quick enough, him and the Georgetown police, assuming old Georgetown was big enough to have any. Christ, him and Laura’d come up five-six months before, following Frank’s Honda along the roads in daylight. Could he remember it enough to find it in the dark? The locals would help out if necessary. They’d have to.

  He went into the garage, hit the button twice to turn on the center light and scroll the door up. Locking the door to the house, Frank felt that same damned grit there, and rage surged in him. He was going to get the son-of-a- bitch who’d hollowed out his life and made of it a bloody and deranged thing. He stopped, imagining the ringing of the phone. But there was nothing. He scrambled into the Honda, fired it up (good, gas tank at three-quarters), put the gun in the glove compartment, belted in, turned on the headlights, and backed out with less caution than usual.

  A quiet neighborhood. Scared. Humbled. Even Flora Larchmont’s blinds were drawn against the violence that had touched down and savaged two people across the way.

  It was a long way to Chiquita Lake. Too damn fucking long for comfort, and Frank prayed he wasn’t too late.

  TWELVE

  LIFE STRUGGLES

  Fatigue was creeping over him again, swirling slowly around him like a column of fog and spiraling in through his pores. It had already overcome Wolf. He was conked out on the throw rug. Even Karin looked exhausted. Must be his tired eyes playing tricks. She’d done nothing to make her look like she’d run a marathon, just lying there in bed under Wolf’s guard for the last hour while he made a mess of Marcie.

  Murdering bitch refused his orders? Fine, he could take the axe to her now. But that wouldn’t get him what he wanted. He needed to be slow with her, pry out a tooth or twist off a couple of her toes, bring her around to his way of thinking. Once she pieced Marcie back together and made her as strong as him, once she laid hands on his head and stilled the wasp-man stinging him, he’d off her and be on his way. Take that Frank fucker out too.

  But if he fell asleep, she would escape. He didn’t have a whole shitload of time to secure her. Leaning the axe against the door jamb, he went back to the couch and its gutted torso, stuck swords angling out of it. Hacked legs—kneecaps on down—lay about like mannequin limbs on the floor, ropes still cutting into her ankles, someone neglecting to tell them they could relax, it was over. Where were the goddamn cuffs?

  Her arms lay by the fireplace, one flat on the floor, the other elbowed up by the hearth, blue hands tentatively touching one another like adolescent starfish discovering love. Danny snagged them like kindling, held them to his chest, unlocked the cuffs from her abraded wrists, worked them free of the clothesline. The severed arms he tossed on the torso, thinking he’d soon be in their embrace, but not if he didn’t hurry. He staggered back to the bedroom, giddy in the head, losing motor control like a drunk, not feeling high or sick, just closing down at an unsettling pace. Past the axe, time enough for that later, past the mirrored vanity he’d surprised her with once, one glimpse of his face, bathed in blood, wasp-man peering out of his eyes. He looked away hurriedly, needed to use the fucking outdoor shower in back, saw her in the mirror, then made it to the bed, avoiding that look he’d seen in the glass, got hold of her right arm, cuffed her right wrist—

  “Danny, please don’t.”

  —functional bed, junkyard fixer-upper, curved steel above pillows, steel columns rising to punch into them at one foot intervals, he knelt on the pillows, blood-smeared them, steadied himself, shelfed logs swirling like marble batter behind the bed, tugged at her arm, clatter of cuff on steel, ringed it, heard-more-than-saw it snap shut but knew he’d gotten it right—

  “I’m sorry, Danny, I’m sorry.”

  —drifted down, slid down, strange her apologizing to him, tried to ask her what the frigging fuck she had to be sorry about, but then the pillow was too soft to resist, too soft the old flat mattress, and he couldn’t help but let the world deflate and dissipate around him.

  ***

  “Listen, buddy, you’re as decent as you say, put the gun down and we’ll drive you to your cabin—”

  “Maybe you’re telling the truth,” said Frank, “but I can’t afford maybe’s. You refused once without the gun, I think you’d refuse again. Look, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to get out of the car now, both of you.”

  The woman opened her door.

  The man stopped her. “Where you going?”

  She yanked free and got out. “I believe him, Hank. Don’t be a mule about this.”

  “It was your idea to stop and help this S.O.B. in the first place, pitch dark out here, miles from the nearest town. We were past him and you insisted I turn around and go back—”

  “Mister,” said Frank, feeling his career as a lawyer go all to hell, but not caring one iota, “I’ve never shot anyone before, but if you’re not out of that car in three seconds, I’m going to put a bullet in you.”

  “Now hold on, I—”

  “Hank?” Anxious.

  “One.”

  “This isn’t how decent folks act, you can’t—”

  “Two.” The guy was going to make him do it; he’d hit an artery by mistake, and while he was driving off to save Karin, leaning forward away from the bloody car seat, he’d rack up a manslaughter charge beside his conked-out Honda, damn those Hondas Forever jerkoffs.

  “Hank, for godsakes get out of the car!”

  “All right, all right, Jesus, don’t shoot me, I’m out of the seatbelt, I’m opening the door, all right?”

  “That’s better,” said Frank. “Look, I’m sorry. You have my name, I’ll make it up to you I swear, I—”

  The wife: “Just go and save her.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Hank.

  “Yes, yes I will.” He asked them to face away from him, put
their hands on the Honda rooftop, more to keep Hank the bulldog from trying any heroics of his own. He was clearly a bullshitter from way back, wasn’t about to be bullshat by any other bullshitter, and didn’t believe a word Frank had said. Fine. Let him read about it in the paper if he liked, day after tomorrow over breakfast, well how about that, the guy was telling the truth. Here’s to Hank’s wife. Here’s hoping (hard to read family dynamics but Frank thought he had a fifty-fifty chance) she had and used the power to avert a lawsuit against him, forgive and forget, glad to be part of a story Frank hoped to God had a happy ending.

  He gunned the big-bodied car—hadn’t even had time to notice what kind it was, El Dorado writ in pseudo-elegant cursive across the dash—and drove off into the darkness, good old Hank in the rear-view mirror gesturing to heaven in exasperation, then shaking a fist after him.

  ***

  Her husband lay on his back, painted in blood, softly snoring. Karin’s hand, a helpless spider, dangled above his red face. Metal rasped against metal when she moved. That made him start slightly, ease up on the snore, then resume. Danny had always fallen asleep quickly, though never as quickly as this. He’d been a light sleeper too, and she feared he might come fully awake at any moment if she shifted too abruptly or touched him.