The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “Dangerous? Eating street meat is dangerous. Rawson threw twenty thousand people on Grace like a pack of dogs. That’s another level dangerous, man. Good thing I know Jiu Jitsu.”

  “You do?”

  “No…but Keanu Reeves learned it in, like, ten minutes in The Matrix. Can’t be that hard. Listen, will you go on the record about the Get Up America! interview? Give your side of the allegations?”

  “Actually,” Remy said, “I will. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Okay. What do you have in mind?”

  “How hard is it for you to get police reports from other cities and states?”

  “Not very,” he said, “unless the records have been sealed.”

  “These wouldn’t be. I need you to get police records for Dennis James Stanton. Date of birth March 30, 1955. He lived in Lancaster, Pennsylvania until at least ten years ago, and the records would be kept there. I don’t know where he’s been living the last ten years. I haven’t spoken to him in a decade. But there will be police reports from Lancaster. I need you to find them. And I need you to publish them.”

  “Okay, but I have to ask. Is this, like, a favor? Because you know I have an actual job and it doesn’t entail digging into peoples’ personal lives just for kicks.”

  “I understand. And no, it’s not just for kicks. A major network is planning to run an interview with a man who has numerous domestic violence charges against him, and the network completely neglected to mention that. I think Gazette readers will want to know Get Up America! is promoting a domestic abuser like he’s some courageous whistleblower. I know Rawson orchestrated it, but that doesn’t matter. People deserve to know the truth about my father.”

  “Okay, my editors might be interested if there’s really smoke where you say there is,” Celsun said. “But they’d be even more interested if you went on the record to accompany the story.”

  “You get the police reports, I’ll go on the record. But the article needs to go live before the interview airs.”

  “Christ, Jeremy, it airs in less than twenty-four hours and I haven’t even run this by my editors yet.”

  “Well, then stop wasting your time talking to me and talk to whoever you need to talk to. Then call me back once you have the reports.”

  “You got it,” Celsun said. “I’m sure I don’t need to even ask this, but I have the exclusive on this, right?”

  “You do.”

  “Blammo. Awesome. Be in touch.”

  Remy ended the call. He prayed Celsun was as good at his job as Grace.

  Then he saw that he had three new text messages. They were from Alena.

  Remy, I saw this thing with your dad. Please call me.

  I heard about Trevor. Can we talk? I don’t know what’s going on. I asked my father if he’s heard from you and he refused to speak to me. Something is wrong. Please get back to me.

  I don’t know what’s going on. But I need to see you.

  Remy stared at the texts. He felt an ache in his heart. He wanted to talk to Alena desperately. He wanted to see her. To go somewhere, just the two of them, away from this madness.

  But what could he say? He couldn’t tell her that her father was a monster.

  So Remy turned his phone off without responding to her.

  The next order of business was a little trickier: he needed to get a weapon.

  Buying a gun in New York City required a four-month waiting period to get a license approved. Remy didn’t have four months. And, sadly, he didn’t know any shady characters who could get him one off the books—not to mention the possible legal repercussions if he was found with an unlicensed firearm. And if he ended up in prison, Remy could expect to receive the Dastan Nogoyev shiv special, courtesy of Rawson and Phillip Costanzo

  But he couldn’t walk around emptyhanded. Not after what happened to Trevor and Grace. A knife would be too cumbersome, too butcher-y. And besides, he wasn’t Rambo. Brass knuckles wouldn’t do a thing if someone actually did have a gun or a knife. Unfortunately, it was illegal in New York State to own a taser or stun gun. Still, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting killed in prison if he was already dead. Sometimes you had to make the decision that seemed to be the least terrible.

  Remy walked to an Internet café. He ran a quick search for legal online stun gun and taser sales. Dozens of people sold them legally through sites like eBay. He narrowed down his search to sellers in the TriState area. He found six dealers.

  Remy created a dummy Gmail account registered under the name Phil Rawlings. He emailed all six of the dealers. He claimed to be in immediate need of a stun gun for self-defense purposes due to a series of break-ins in his neighborhood.

  Then he sat. And waited.

  He refreshed his email constantly. There was no word from any of the dealers, Eric Celsun, or Grace Rivas. Media requests were pouring in, hoping to get Remy to comment on his father’s Get Up America! interview. It was a strange feeling, after months of being part of the Griggs rapid response team, to be ignoring media requests.

  He drank four cups of coffee. His tongue felt like a sofa cushion. An hour later, Remy refreshed his inbox and found an email waiting for him from a dealer named Max420XXXX. He opened it.

  Phil – I sell various types of stun guns and tasers, legally. I cannot illegally sell them within the state of New York. I only ship merchandise to states where carrying such weapons for self-defense purposes are legal. However, if you would like to come by for a cup of coffee, I live in Kew Gardens. Stop by any time. I only brew the expensive stuff.

  Max, or whatever his real name was, gave his full address. Remy replied and said he’d come by that afternoon. He left the café, went to the bank, and withdrew another thousand dollars from his savings account. Then he bought a gray winter hat, a pair of cheapo sunglasses, and ear buds.

  He walked west to 8th Avenue and got on the E train. He took a seat, slipped the glasses on, put the buds in his ears, and prayed he looked more like a guy who didn’t want to be bothered than a guy who had something to hide.

  Remy walked west off the E train from Jamaica Avenue. Nobody had recognized him on the subway. He’d spent the entire ride in nervous anticipation. Had someone recognized him, posted a photo to Twitter or Instagram, Rawson would know where he was. He’d never been so relieved to be left alone.

  Remy walked south on 126th Street towards a row of single-family homes. He opened the gate to number 36, a detached colonial style home with a one-car garage. A brown Volvo was parked in the driveway. There was a note in a child’s handwriting taped to the mailbox that read Welcom Mistr Mailman.

  Remy rang the doorbell. He heard someone approach, and a man opened it.

  “You must be Phil Rawlings,” he said.

  “Yup. And you’re…Max?”

  “You can call me Max. Come in.”

  Remy stepped inside the house. Max was youngish, late thirties or early forties, wearing a red and black flannel over a blue t-shirt, with loose-fitting jeans, floppy brown hair, and two days of beard stubble. The apartment was neat, except for a desk in the corner piled high with papers. Dozens of Legos were strewn about. The desk was bracketed by two shelves that were filled with financial texts and investment books by celebrity financial gurus. Remy guessed that Max was a day trader.

  Family photos lined the walls. Remy looked at the one hanging over the desk. Max stood in the middle, next to an attractive woman, his wife, presumably. A young girl of about seven stood in front, smiling. The girl wore a shirt featuring Rey from the new Star Wars trilogy. Max and his wife’s hands rested on the girl’s shoulders. They were all beaming. Max’s family looked kind and normal.

  “Give me a second,” Max said. “Can I get you something? Water? Snapple?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Max nodded and went upstairs. He returned a minute later with a large duffel bag. He unzipped it and pulled back the folds. Remy’s jaw dropped.

  Inside were dozens of tasers an
d stun guns of every shape and size. Tasers that looked like handguns. Flashlights. Even what appeared to be cell phone cases. And they came in different colors: black, blue, red, pink.

  “Ladies like ’em pink,” Max said. “Who says self-defense can’t be fashionable? Now, first things first. Take off your shirt and pants.”

  “Excuse me?” Remy said.

  “You heard me. You refuse, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

  Remy sighed, then removed his shirt and pants. He contemplated the life decisions that had led to him standing half naked in a strange man’s house in Queens staring at a duffel bag of illegal weaponry.

  Max picked up the pile of clothes and searched them. Then he circled Remy. He patted Remy’s butt, ran his hands over his socks, then smoothed Remy’s underwear over his thighs.

  “Alright,” Max said. “Put your clothes on.”

  Remy did. “Thank you for being gentle.”

  “Service with a smile,” Max said. “So what’re you in the market for?”

  Remy answered, “Something for protection. Small enough that I can conceal it, but powerful enough to only need to use it once.”

  “Protection, huh?” Max said. “But you need to be able to conceal it.” He nodded, as if to say you’re full of shit.

  “Can you help me or not?”

  “Do you even need to ask that? Here. Try this.”

  Max pulled out a rectangular object the size of a garage door opener and handed it to Remy. It was light. Remy turned it over in his hands.

  “This is the Stun Master, Lil Guy model,” Max said. “I call it the Napoleon. This baby is small, like the name implies, but this sucker packs twelve million volts.”

  “Holy crap. In this little thing?”

  “You can put down a water buffalo with this bad boy,” Max said. “And here. Complimentary holster. You can strap that to your leg, arm, wherever.”

  “It’s perfect. And it definitely works?”

  “You want me to test it on you?”

  “That’s really alright,” Remy said. “So what’s it cost?”

  “This model here retails for about thirty bucks. It’s yours for five hundred.”

  “Five hundred? Are you serious? That’s like a two thousand percent markup.”

  “And you wouldn’t be here if you had the time or ability to get yourself one at retail price,” Max said.

  Remy sighed. “Five hundred. You’re a thief. Show me how it works.”

  “No problem. Those metal probes on top are the business end. See that switch on the side? Down position is off. Middle position is the flashlight. Top position means the bugger is on. When it’s in the top position, all you have to do is just hold down the trigger button on the front and bop them with the probes to give someone a twelve million volt tickle. Just make sure not to keep the switch in the top position or you’ll accidentally fry your nut hair off.”

  Remy flicked the switch to the on position and put his finger on the trigger. “Just press that?”

  “That’ll do it. Try it.”

  Remy pressed the button and a blue flash sparked across the tips.

  “Gnarly. What’s that one?” Remy said, pointing to another object in the bag.

  “Oh, now this one is really cool,” Max said. “It’s called a Yellowjacket. Looks like a cell phone case, right?”

  Remy nodded.

  “Well, it’s actually a taser that looks like a cell phone case. You slip it over your cell phone, and then put this around your wrist.” Max held up a thin black bracelet with two small buttons on either side of the band.

  “It looks like a FitBit,” Remy said.

  “That’s the idea. It’s designed to look like a fitness tracker. Someone robs you and nabs your phone, you just depress both buttons simultaneously, and blam. They’re dropping your wallet, your phone, and probably a load down their pants.”

  “How much is that one?”

  “Retails for a shade under two hundred. Tell you what. I’ll give you them both for eight fifty.”

  “Done.”

  Remy counted out the bills and gave them to Max. “Now, if you go through a metal detector and they catch you carrying either of these, we never met. And if you give me up,” Max said, pointing to a small glass orb above his computer. A camera. Shit. Remy hadn’t seen it. “I give you up. But don’t sweat it. I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble. You gotta do what you gotta do to defend yourself these days. Right, Mr. Stanton?”

  Remy’s head snapped up. He opened his mouth. “Wait…”

  “Don’t worry. Like I said, I have a business to run here. But I recognized you the second I opened the door. But if you need these babies for protection, then politics is a much dirtier business than I thought.”

  “You have no idea,” Remy said.

  Remy felt the Lil Guy taser snug against his ankle. He spent the entire ride hoping it didn’t go off accidentally and set his leg hair on fire. He’d slipped the Yellowjacket cover on his phone. It added considerable bulk to the device, but it was worth it. He wondered if the bulge on his ankle was visible, making him look like some bootleg secret agent. Either way, he felt a little better with some protection, even if the odds were fifty-fifty that he accidentally used them on himself first.

  When he got off the E train Port Authority, Remy saw he had a voicemail waiting from Eric Celsun, plus a text that read: Call me ASAP. Prepare to be happy.

  Remy returned to his hotel room and called Celsun.

  Celsun picked up and said, “Hey, Remy. Holy crap, your dad was a giant dick.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Okay, well, you might not know this. I found three police reports pertaining to a Mr. Dennis James Stanton. Born in Lancaster County, DOB of March 30, 1955. All domestic violence situations.”

  “That’s him.”

  “Let’s see…the first police report I found was filed on September 17, 1979.”

  “That’s before my parents were married,” Remy said. “Before I was born.”

  “Okay, here we go. This is directly from the report. At two in the morning,” Celsun said, “after receiving a 9-1-1 call, Lancaster police arrived at the home of a Ms. Elaine Steadman on suspicion of domestic violence. The investigating officer wrote: ‘During an argument involving caller’s boyfriend, identified as a Mr. Dennis Stanton of Lancaster, PA, the suspect grabbed victim by throat and punched wall next to her head. He then threw her down violently onto couch. Victim states she was thrown with such force that she hit a nightstand on the side of the couch and struck her shoulder. Marks on victim’s throat and shoulder and damage to property are consistent with report. Steadman claims Mr. Stanton left the scene prior to her 911 call.

  “Misdemeanor charges were filed against Dennis,” Celsun said, “but dropped when Ms. Steadman refused to cooperate.”

  “Do they say why she refused to cooperate?”

  “This might explain it,” Celsun said. “I rang up the Lancaster courthouse and found a marriage certificate filed in Lancaster County for Elaine Steadman and Dennis Stanton, dated October 22, 1980.”

  “He was married before my mother?” Remy said. “I didn’t know that. So she declined to press charges and then married him?”

  “Well, briefly,” Celsun said. “The marriage was annulled four months later.”

  “Unreal,” Remy said. “I never knew that.”

  “The second report is from April 3, 1985.”

  “Okay, that’s after he married my mother, but still a few years before I was born.”

  “Similar scenario,” Celsun continued. “Police respond to a 9-1-1 hang up, find a Mrs. Margaret Stanton neé Twomey locked in a bathroom. Dennis Stanton is not on the premises. When an officer picks the lock on the bathroom door, they find Margaret Stanton on the floor holding a kitchen knife. She has bruises on both arms and a superficial scalp wound. Mrs. Stanton claimed Dennis Stanton attacked her with a phone. The arm bruises were defensive wounds. Stanton gets
charged with domestic assault. Margaret Stanton refuses to cooperate.”

  Remy shook his head. The only thing that terrified these women more than Dennis Stanton’s abuse was what he might do if they cooperated with police.

  “The last report on record is from February 8, 2002.”

  “I remember that one,” Remy said.

  “You should. You were the one who called the cops.”

  “That’s right. Go on.”

  “Police responded to a 9-1-1 call from Jeremy Stanton, the fourteen-year-old son of Margaret and Dennis Stanton of Lancaster, PA. Police arrived to find Dennis Stanton incapacitated on the floor of the family’s home. Upon receiving a medical evaluation, Mr. Stanton was determined to have a compound tibia fracture. Margaret Stanton had locked herself in her bedroom. She was suffering from severe arm and facial wounds, which were later determined to be a fractured eye socket and a dislocated elbow. Mrs. Stanton said the injuries were obtained when Dennis Stanton grabbed her violently by the throat, punched her in the face, and twisted her arm behind her back. Both Jeremy and Margaret Stanton confirm that Jeremy pulled Mr. Stanton off of his mother and pushed him, at which point Mr. Stanton tripped on a nearby floor lamp, which is how he received his injury. Both Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were taken to Lancaster General Hospital for treatment. Jeremy Stanton was questioned and released by Lancaster PD. Dennis Stanton was arrested and charged with domestic assault.”

  Remy felt his hands start to shake. He remembered that day. He was in his room, reading a Piers Anthony novel, when he heard a loud crack come from downstairs. It was the sound of his mother’s cheekbone being broken. Remy remembered the next crack, when his father’s leg broke. The feeling of euphoria when he saw Dennis writhing in pain on the floor. Finally, he was old enough and strong enough to fight back. To protect her.

  That day was the second to last time I saw him, Remy thought. The last time before my mother died.

  You deserved it, you asshole.

  “That charge stuck,” Celsun said. “Dennis Stanton pled guilty to two counts of second degree simple domestic assault and was sentenced to three years at the Lancaster County Correctional Facility. His sentence was reduced to fifteen months because of, get a load of this, good behavior.”