by Brian Hodge
"I just can't, is all," Suzie said, painfully aware that her voice had taken on a childish, whining sound.
"Can't? Or don't want to?" Woody said.
Even though she couldn't see his eyes, she could tell by the firm set of his jaw that his anger was starting to build.
"Oh, I get it," Woody said, his voice dropping low. "It's your lawyer, right? He says you can't see me 'cause of the charges. Is that it?"
Suzie bit her lower lip and said nothing.
"Yeah, that's it." Woody snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "Your fucking douche bag lawyer." His hand was still out blocking her, and now he gave her a gentle push back. The line of departing employees streamed around them on both sides. A few people paused and looked at them, trying to gauge if there was any serious trouble brewing, but then they moved on.
"You listen to that asshole instead of me. That's your fuckin' problem," Woody said, his voice rising in intensity. "He's tellin' you to go for my fuckin' balls, 'n you won't listen to me. I'm tellin' yah, babe, if you know what's good for yah, you'll drop those goddamned charges."
Suzie looked at him with a blank expression, too frightened to do or say anything because she knew he'd take it wrong. An oddly distorted reflection of the Unum building filled Woody's shades. His lower jaw was working back and forth, and she could hear him grinding his teeth.
Oh, he's pissed all right.
"It ain't that," she said, cringing at how whiny her voice sounded. "I have a court order that says you're not supposed to be anywhere near me. I asked my lawyer about that, and he said even if I dropped it, the police would follow up with charges. Especially after you beat—"
She cut herself off when she realized that she might already have said too much.
"After I—what?" Woody said with a snarl. He gave her another, harder shove. Suzie stumbled backward a few steps and almost fell. "What were you going to say?
"After I beat up that cop in South Portland? S'that what you were going to say?"
Tears started to fill her eyes as she shook her head rapidly, no.
"Hey. Lighten up, buddy," a voice behind Suzie said. She turned and was never so thankful before in her life to see one of the Unum security guards. He was standing in the middle of the walkway, his feet spread wide and his arms folded across his chest.
Woody looked at him and smiled benignly. "We're just talkin'. That all right with you?"
The guard shook his head and took one step forward. "I don't like the way you've been talking to her, buddy," the guard said, his voice low and menacing.
"Really? Well fuck you, asshole," Woody said, but Suzie was relieved to see him take a few steps back.
"Listen, son," the security guard said. "Unless you want me to call the police, and then you can find out what real trouble is all about, you'll move on out of here and leave our employees alone. Can I make myself any clearer?"
Suzie noticed that the guard wasn't carrying a gun or a nightstick, but he looked like he could take care of himself. His right hand shifted and came to rest on the walkie-talkie sticking out of his hip pocket.
Woody's scowl deepened, but he started backing up across the grass in the general direction of his car. "You better think about what I said, Suze," he shouted.
Suzie opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She couldn't take her eyes off the retreating figure of Woody. Numb with fear, she watched as he got to his car, opened the door, and hopped inside. Even above the traffic sounds of departing workers, she could hear him start up the car and gun the motor. Then, with a sudden squeal of tires, he spun around the rotary, spewing gravel and thin blue exhaust into the air.
"Friend of yours?" the security guard asked, raising his eyebrows.
Biting her lower lip, Suzie shook her head. "Kind of," she said, speaking so softly she wondered if the guard even heard her.
Still moving fast, Woody's car cut into the bumper-to-bumper traffic that was moving slowly through the traffic signal. His tires spun out on the gravel shoulder of the road, raising thick, yellow dust. A couple of car horns blared, but Woody ran the red light as he darted out onto Congress Street and disappeared down the road, heading back toward Portland.
Before he turned and walked back toward the building, the guard said softly to Suzie, "I think you gotta get yourself some new friends."
PART THREE
JUNE 24 THROUGH JUNE 26
"The wicked have to have somewhere to live." —An Icelandic proverb
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Trashed"
1
Marty didn't sleep very well that night, and by dawn, it felt like the insides of his eyelids were on fire. His pillow and sheets were drenched with sweat, but as sunlight inched its way across his bedroom floor, he tucked the blankets up under his chin to fight off waves of chills that made his teeth chatter. He knew exactly what the problem was. He was certain it was no cold or flu. It was the scratches on his forearm. They felt like strands of live electric wires implanted beneath his skin.
"You're gonna pay for this," he muttered as he thought about Kip and whichever one of his lame friends hiding in the cave had done this to him.
His teeth chattered as he eased his arm out from under the covers and held it up so he could inspect the wounds in the early morning light. The slices themselves were filled with a thick, yellowish gunk that was sticky to the touch. It looked as though the wounds would eventually close up, but they'd leave a scar, for sure.
What really concerned Marty was the skin around the cuts. A deep, angry red hue more than an inch wide traced the length of each cut, fading to pink before blending into the light skin tone. He knew the cuts were infected because of the steady throbbing that kept time with his pulse.
When he and Kip had arrived home the day before, neither of them had mentioned the incident to their father. Kip had wanted to keep his run-away campsite a secret, so he hadn't needed the threats of physical damage from Marty if he breathed even a word of it. Mostly out of habit, he pretended to be terrified by Marty's warning. And Marty, of course, couldn't admit that he had been out at the caves to steal from Al's stash, so all the way around, keeping their afternoon at the Indian Caves a secret was no problem...
Until now.
After supper, Marty had spent some time in the bathroom, inspecting the wounds. He had poured almost a whole bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his arm, watching the liquid foam and bubble as it washed down the grooves of the wounds. The stinging had brought tears to his eyes, but he had convinced himself this would insure that he wouldn't have to admit anything to his father. Now he wasn't so sure... especially after the bout of chills and fever last night. And the nightmares that had plagued him throughout the night? Well, he'd just as soon forget all about those, too.
Groaning softly, Marty swung his legs out from under the covers and stood up shakily. He hugged his arms to his chest to ward off the waves of chills that kept his teeth chattering. He grabbed a sweatshirt from his bureau and slipped on a clean pair of jeans. The ones he had worn the day before were splattered with blood but, fortunately, he had had time to run them through the wash before his father got home from work.
Pulling the sweatshirt on over his head was pure agony. The tight cotton chaffed against the cuts on his arms, sending his pain level to a new high. The yellow gunk in the wounds collected tiny tufts of lint, but he knew he had to wear long sleeves for a day or two to hide the cuts from his father. After pulling on a pair of socks and sliding on his sneakers, he went downstairs to the kitchen.
His father was already dressed for work and was finishing up breakfast. Marty was surprised he hadn't heard him knocking around downstairs, but he had been so involved with his own pain, he hadn't heard a thing. As far as he knew, Kip—the jerk—was still piling up the Zs.
"'Mornin'," his father said, nodding at him over the rim of his coffee cup. The Portland Press Herald was spread out on the table in front of him, but he folded it over, making room for Marty.
Marty nodded and grunted as he went over to the cupboard and reached for the box of cereal on the top shelf. He had momentarily forgotten about his cuts, so when the sweatshirt sleeve pulled the wounds open, pain zinged up his arm like acid burning in his veins. He grunted softly and hugged his arm close to his chest.
Bill glanced up from his newspaper. "Something wrong?" he asked.
Marty shook his head. "No—uh, just a twinge in my shoulder," he said. "Must've slept on it wrong or something."
He reached for the cereal with his other hand, then got a bowl and spoon, and sat down at the table. The milk and sugar were already on the table for his father's coffee.
"Your brother awake yet?" Bill asked, not looking up from the paper. He popped the one last bite of English muffin into his mouth and chewed noisily.
"Dunno," Marty said as he concentrated on filling his bowl with cereal, and then sprinkled it with sugar and poured on the milk. He tried to make all of his movements look natural, but it felt clumsy, having to rely on just one arm. He was grateful, at least, that the wounds were on his left arm. Because he was right handed, he would have had trouble explaining why he was eating with the wrong hand. Keeping his left hand resting on his lap, Marty scooped up a spoonful of cereal and began eating.
"So, summer school starts on Monday," his father said. "You think you're ready?"
Marty shrugged and continued chewing. The cereal made loud, crunching sounds like fireworks going off inside his head.
Bill folded the newspaper in half and dropped it onto one of the unoccupied chairs. Pushing his chair back, he stood up while he drained his coffee. He was wiping his face with his napkin when something caught his attention.
"You hurt your arm?" he asked.
Marty froze. "Huh?" he asked, looking up numbly
"Your arm." Bill leaned down for a closer look. "There's blood on your shirt sleeve."
Marty glanced down and saw that, all along the inner sleeve, bright red blotches were soaking through the gray cotton. "Yeah—uh, well I uh... cut myself yesterday. It's nothin'."
"Let me have a look," Bill said. He pulled his chair over and sat down beside Marty. "Come on," he commanded. "Roll up your sleeve."
"It's nothin'. Really," Marty said as the tension inside him mounted. He tried to turn away from his father, shielding his wounded arm, but Bill reached in front of him and grabbed his wrist.
"Roll it up," he said firmly. The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew their attention, and they both looked over as Kip walked into the kitchen.
"'Mornin'," he said as cheerily as he could. Actually, he was boiling mad. He had set the alarm last night to wake him up so he could—once again—leave the house before anyone else was awake. He hadn't noticed that he had set the digital for P.M. instead of A.M., and it was the morning sun and the sounds of his brother stirring that had awakened him.
When Kip saw his father holding Marty's wounded arm, an icy grip took hold of his stomach.
Oh, boy. Here it comes, was his only thought as he walked over to the counter and busied himself getting two slices of bread into the toaster. He tried to make the action last forever... or at least long enough for his father to go off to work but finally, unable to handle the suspense, he turned around to see what was going on.
Marty was slouching back in his chair and gingerly rolling his sweatshirt sleeve up to his elbow. He worked the elastic wristband carefully around the wounds so it wouldn't get them bleeding again. Kip couldn't help but stare at the angry red slashes on his brother's arm, and his stomach dropped. All he could think was, How much of what happened yesterday is going to come out?
"Oh, boy," Bill said, whistling through his teeth as he leaned forward and inspected the wounds. "That's a little more than a scratch."
Marty shrugged, trying to keep his cool, but his left arm was trembling as he held it up.
"How'd you get this?" Bill asked, nailing Marty with a no-bullshit look.
Marty ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Yesterday—" he said, but before he could continue, he took a big, dry swallow. "Yesterday, me and Al were fooling around with—uh, with my hunting knife. You know, practicing throwing it and making it stick into trees and things."
"Uh-huh," Bill said, nodding his head. His eyes darted back and forth from the wound to Marty's eyes. The little bell was sounding in his head, telling him this was pure bullshit.
Here it comes, Kip thought as his panic intensified. Marty had to mention the damned knife, and—like a fool—he had left it out at the campsite. If after all of this, Marty went looking for his knife and couldn't find it... Kip shivered as he considered what might happen next. For the first time in his life he thought that Marty really would have a reason to kill him.
"You know," Marty continued, "we were walking and chucking it at, like, trees 'n phone poles 'n stuff. Trying to make it stick in. 'N then, one time, I threw it and—Al threw it, actually, at a phone pole, and he missed. It landed in a pricker bush, and when I reached in, I got all cut up."
The mention of the knife was bad enough, but Kip was relieved that Marty—at least—had made no mention of the Indian Caves. Then again, even if he had, Kip had already decided he wouldn't spend even one night out there. It was getting too close for comfort. He had to get his camping stuff out of there.
"Cuts like these from a pricker bush?" Bill said. "Must have been one hell of a pricker bush."
Marty was positive his father didn't believe a word of what he said, but now that he had started the lie, he had to stick with it.
"Yeah," he said, nodding his head. "They were wicked thick, and the knife went way into them 'cause Al had thrown it pretty hard. I know I should've made him get it. He was the one who threw it."
Glancing at his watch, Bill scowled and shook his head. "It's too early for Doc Kimball to see you. I think we'd better go to the emergency room at Maine Med. Those cuts look infected."
Marty shook his head and gently pulled his arm away from his father's grip. "Do we have to? I washed it really good last night and put peroxide on it. It's not so bad."
He wondered if the strain in his voice gave away the lie. The truth was, the throbbing had intensified so much his eyes were starting to water. Between his panic and his pain, he was barely able to keep from crying out.
Kip's toast popped up, making him jump. He got the butter and peanut butter from the refrigerator and, turning his back on his father and Marty, kept himself busy, slathering the toast until it was dripping. His knife scraped over the crust so hard it pushed the peanut butter through to the other side. The sound grated on his nerves.
His ears continued to burn because he couldn't stop thinking about Marty's knife. Of course, once Marty had come out of the caves bleeding, Kip had never had a chance to go back and get the knife so he could sneak it back into Marty's bureau. But now, scarier thoughts filled his mind.
—What if someone else finds the campsite while I'm not there?
—What if they find the knife and take it?
—What if Marty goes to his room to get the knife and can't find it?
—What if…what if…?
"Frankly, I don't care what you think," Bill said sternly. "I don't want to take a chance of this getting worse. It looks pretty bad already. Come on. We're going to the hospital. Kip, you get dressed too. We'll have lunch in Portland, and you can go to Dr. Fielding's from there."
"Aww—" Kip said, shaking his head. "Do I have to go?"
Because it was summer vacation, he had thought he was through with his shrink, too.
"Yes. You have to go," Bill said. "I'll call the office and tell them I'll be late."
He was reaching for the kitchen wall phone when it rang, startling him and making him jump before he snatched up the receiver.
"Hello," he said gruffly.
"Mr. Howard?" said a female voice on the other end of the line. "This is Suzie LaBlanc. I'm sorry to call you so early, but I wanted to talk to you about something."
; Bill frowned as he walked around the edge of the table and leaned against the wall. Marty shifted uncomfortably in his chair before carefully pulling his sleeve down. Then he resumed eating his cereal, which had already gotten soggy.
"What is it, Suzie?" Bill asked.
He knew Suzie from around town: She was a short, fairly attractive blonde who struck him as nice enough, but certainly not the brightest girl around. He also knew Woody had beaten he up last week, and she was pressing assault charges against him.
"It's—uh, it's about... you know, what happened between me and Woody."
"Yes," Bill said. "You do realize I'm Woody's lawyer in this case. It would be a conflict of interest if I were to—"
"I realize that," Suzie said. She sounded like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "I know all that. I want you to help me with something."
"Has Woody been bothering you?" Bill asked. "Has he been giving you any trouble about pressing charges?"
The long pause on the end of the line indicated that that was exactly what had happened, but Bill wanted to draw her out if he could. He had to hear it from her.
"He... uh. I've been—I mean, I've seen him a couple of times since then, if that's what you mean. He hasn't—you know, like, hurt me or anything. It's just that I want... I think I want to drop the charges."
Bill shook his head, glancing first at Marty, who had apparently abandoned his soggy cereal, and then at Kip, who was just standing there, staring out the kitchen window as he ate toast and drank orange juice.
"If that's what you want, you would have to speak with your attorney about it. Although, in a case like this, I think you'll find it isn't quite that easy. I mean, you can't just say: 'Oops. Sorry. I guess I don't want to go to court.' In a case like this, it's actually the county that's pressing the charges, really. You, being the person who was assaulted, are simply the key witness."
