Do Not Disturb

by A. R. Torre

  Another wave hits, the uncurling feeling in his stomach verifying it, the panic only speeding the nausea along and he swallows hard, tries to blink, tries to open his eyes, tries to find his bearings as his vision refuses to come.

  CHAPTER 103

  A SOFT TOUCH, gentle but incessant against Mike’s shoulder, brings him to consciousness, his room coming into focus when he bats away her hand and rubs at his eyes. Dawn, peeking through the open window, his angel of rescue leaning over him in jeans and a tight sweater.

  “Fuck.” He jerks upright, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. At least I can feel it. His blurry vision finds the bedside clock. “You’re here early.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. You needed more meds. Here.” Jamie holds out a glass of water and a handful of pills, which he takes without argument. “What’s going on with your girl?”

  Moving weak legs to the side of the bed, he sits fully up. “I don’t know. As you’re well aware, I just woke up.”

  “Don’t you have the ability to check on her somehow? Hack into her phone or cameras?”

  He shifts, gesturing for his chair. “Yes and no. Yes, I can, but no, I won’t. I did that last night. Hadn’t ever done it before. We, as hackers, most of us are… well—we don’t get out much. So we have an unwritten rule. No hacking for emotional gratification. You see, if we wanted, we could tap into dressing room cams, personal laptop webcams… take a look into any girl we really wanted to see. Somewhere, whether it be a cell phone or an iSight, we’d get eyes on her. But that’s invasive, an abuse of our knowledge. I’m not saying all of us adopt this morality stance. There are plenty out there who are jacking off each night to their next-door neighbors, watching housewives changing and coeds fucking. But it shouldn’t be done. I’ll screw with corporate America all day long, rearrange someone’s personal and financial details as I see fit. But spying isn’t my thing. I turned on her cams last night to see if she was okay. As it was… I had them on longer than I should have.”

  She wrinkles her face in disgust, misinterpreting his comment as something sexual in nature. “So. She’s cool? You think she’s safe from this guy?”

  “I think she’s safe.” He moves to the computer and powers it on.

  She follows, pushing at his personal space, the hand she puts on the chair arm invasive in its ownership. “If you don’t call her, it will seem odd. Your last conversation you were telling her to get out of there, like you were worried for her life. It’d seem strange to not call her back.”

  “Give me some room; I can’t think with you hovering over me.” He closes his eyes and settles back in the chair, the rock of the seat soft and gentle in its movement. “Plus, I returned her money.” The thought mumbles out of his lips, his mind liking the idea more as he turns it over. Maybe she still needs help. Maybe she is upset. He does need to tell her about the money. That will make the bloodthirsty beauty happy. He wonders, for a moment, if she is still sound asleep on his dead body.

  He reaches with his bad arm, appreciating the movement in the socket, the wound not as debilitating as his mind had envisioned in the handcuffed hours of contemplation he had endured. He picks up his cell, unplugging it from the wall and settling back against the leather, Jamie’s hand finally leaving the chair, her stroll into the kitchen watched closely as he tries to think. Initiating the call, he wonders what Deanna will say.

  CHAPTER 104

  THE LAST TIME I left my town and headed east, it was to save a life. Now, I am trying to hide one. Both times in trucks, my previous drive a fight between fantasy and focus, my dark needs popping up at unexpected times, the freedom and possibilities before me too great to resist. It filled both ditches along the road, a black pool of temptation, my hands fighting to keep the truck straight, not wanting to dip my toe into a place that would grab hold and drag me under. This drive is better, my thoughts more concerned with capture than attack, thoughts of pulling into the closest gas station and murdering the occupants the last thing on my agenda. I want only to get rid of this demon and return to my apartment. My psyche can’t take this day, the last twenty-four hours of activity so different from my norm.

  My third kill. Each of them so different. I felt no guilt with Ralph. Never thought twice about it. But I don’t know enough about this man. Is a man’s attempt to rape me valid cause for execution? I have, on my side of the jury, his violence against Mike. But still. A knife wound and finger scraping isn’t the same as sending someone into a dark pit of hell for the rest of eternity.

  I roll my shoulders and try to relax the tension in my neck. Keep my eyes peeled and try to think, try to find a place to put his body, somewhere it will not be discovered. Somewhere it can drop into oblivion. I wish I were in the South. Where swamps and gators lie in wait, ready for a juicy dead body to rip to shreds, the evidence crunched and slurped down in minutes.

  Oklahoma doesn’t have swamps. We have open stretches of land, nothing for miles, a guaranteed ability to stand out like a sore thumb if doing anything other than driving. I drive until the sky starts to turn, a hint of pale blue and lighter pink, streaks of yellow beginning to smear across the landscape like a child’s finger painting. I turn off the highway, turning my headlights off and scanning, worrying. Once day breaks I will not be able to hide, could be discovered halfway through my drop. I wind down country roads, my eyes taking notice when a recycling sign, drooping and bent, the faded splay of white along its metal bottom indicating that it was, at one point, victim to a paintball gun. I turn, following its arrow, the paved road turning dusty, and move between crop fields, picking up speed until I see chain-link fence and Dumpsters.

  A county trash depot. Small towns don’t have curbside pickup. My childhood home did, the huff and clang of six a.m. often eliciting a curse from my mother, our cans locked and hidden in the garage, no one remembering to drag them to the curb. But my grandparents’ home, the big old two-story, stuck at the north end of a long dirt road, didn’t have those city comforts. We bagged our trash, kept it in the barn until the plastic pile rose high, then loaded up the back of the truck. Drove four miles to the county dump and stood, tennis shoes on tailgates, and heaved the bags through the air, out of the bed and into the giant green Dumpsters, praying the bags wouldn’t bust, our waste stacking atop others, making the green monster one big rectangular box of nasty.

  Our bottles, few that they were, went in a round hole, one of three on an orange trailer, the other two holes dedicated to cans and paper. And in the back, lined up like misbehaving children, were the Dumpsters dedicated to yard waste and large items. Our weak arms and dead hearts tossed the items without thought, piling the bits of our life high, a compactor once a day crushing everything together into one squished-together cube of waste.

  I pull up to the gate, an unhinged padlock hanging loosely from the latch. I hop, unlatch, open, then pull through, the layout different but similar to my grandparents’. I’m alone. The night is so quiet that I hear a coyote howl, over the fields, the lonely animal probably a half mile away. I find the bulk waste on the right, the Dumpsters clearly marked, the trash not yet compacted. They probably squash in a few hours, at the start of the workday, a gazillion tons of force crushing toilets, two-by-fours, and fifteen-year-old sofas flat, in one effortless push. That works for me. I jump into the Dumpster, moving carefully around a tire, what looks to be a wrecked lawnmower, and someone’s ancient CPU, pushing a few items into place until there is a hole. A gap between abandoned items, one that looks deep enough to submerge at least half of my mattress.

  More sweat. It is harder this time, the initial lift of one end until it is high enough to push, the edge of the truck and Dumpster beds acting as fulcrums. I work in the dim light of dawn, the truck off, the gate closed behind me, my vehicle between two Dumpsters, relatively hidden. But I still pray. I pray that no one will also spontaneously decide to embark on an early morning trash run. Hope that kids on four wheelers don’t come screaming over the clos
est hill, their headlights picking up my form, their curiosity bringing them closer. Just a girl, dumping a mattress. No cause for alarm. But later, if something goes wrong and his body is found, that girl, dumping that mattress… it won’t take long to put the clues together. I heave, every muscle I barely have working together, the box spring making the slide into the Dumpster, the momentum of my push shoving me over the edge of the bed, and I grip with my fingers and hands, coming back into the truck. The box hovers, one end jutting out over the hole I have created. The good end. The one that contains Marcus’s body, the body that, despite the cold temperatures that are fogging my breath and chapping my nose, will start to smell. Need to get it compacted and moved. Put in the dump, alongside festering maggot- and rat-filled heaps of trash, where its odor will mix with a thousand others and be ignored until it decomposes into nothing.

  Again, that guilt. It chases me as I lift the light end of the spring, physics behaving as the other end dips, allows itself to be pushed, and falls, three or four feet down, the top, empty half of the box spring sticking up like a flag. Look at me, look at me. But no one will look. Things are jutting and hanging all over these boxes. Toilets don’t stack neatly upon bifold doors upon broken treadmills. The guilt nags at me as I brush my gloved hands off on my jeans. No proper burial. Not for this man. No idea, for his wife or family, what had become of him. A trip to Mexico gone wrong? A bullet in a motel room somewhere from an affair gone awry? I almost wish I could write a letter. Explain. But I’m not sure that would help them. Hearing about his death would not give them peace. Maybe ignorance will. Or maybe I am a justifying monster. Yeah. Most likely that.

  The guilt follows me, as I open the gate, hop into the truck, start it up, and leave, closing and locking the gate behind me. I was never seen so I was never there. One dead body less, I drive back to the city, the weight of my actions heavy on my shoulders. It was so much easier before. I felt lighter last time. Freer. This time I feel the lift of my killing impulses, but the weight of a different pressure. Guilt. In many ways, a heavier weight. One that I cannot discuss with Dr. Derek. One that I must deal with on my own. I hope he didn’t have a family. I hope he really was a monster.

  I am wired, my after-kill nap reviving me, the jittery realization of what I’ve done keeping me awake. I return home, park the truck, and thumb my still-gloved hands through the key ring that I had found in the man’s pocket. Keys and a roll of fresh dollar bills, almost a thousand bucks folded neatly and stuffed into jeans that looked brand new and ironed. The key ring holds a Mercedes key, the lock and unlock buttons part of its design, seven or eight house keys, and something that appears to be a mailbox or locker key. No tags to a gym, discount cards, the last item on the ring being a small fob of some sort. I need to deal with his vehicle. It can’t sit wherever he parked it. It’s like a beacon, a giant “look here for your missing person” sign, especially a Mercedes. I walk to the window, crane my neck until I see it, an S-Class almost out of eyeshot, sitting in a metered spot at the curb. I drum my fingers on the glass and think. Chances are, in this area, it will be, at some point in time, stolen—I could leave the keys on the front seat and wait—but I can’t risk that. With my luck a Good Samaritan will do the right thing and call the cops. Better to move it now. Better to cover my tracks and leave bread crumbs at the same time. Something for the man’s wife and kids to stew over for the next two decades. God, I’m a bitch.

  I leave the sweatshirt on, grateful for the cold temperatures that will aid in my disguise. Its hood up, gloves on, the baggy sweatshirt that hides my figure—none of it will be looked at twice. The streets outside my window are empty, most people huddled inside. Few to report or notice anything other than the ache of their joints or the freeze of their toes. I exit the apartment, heading down the stairwell, working through the plan, examining it for flaws, then pause on the third-floor landing. Decide I need more, a prop. I jog up the stairs, my calves aching, my breath running out before I reach the top. I am a weakling. My daily crunches and exercises, designed for cellulite reduction, don’t cut it in the “getting rid of dead bodies” role. I huff my way inside and drag my duffel bag out, the insignia-covered tote that used to be a staple of my normal life. Soccer balls shared space with headphones, windbreakers, tennis shoes. Trendy outfits were stuffed alongside heels and makeup bags, DVD cases and face wash. Now, in my new life inside this apartment? It has collected dust. Some paperbacks stuffed in at one point just to clear up some floor space for cardboard box storage, TV dinners or toilet paper. I dump the books out and stuff in some clothes and shoes, a few more items that take up space. I toss in a makeup bag and grab a scarf. Something to wrap around my neck and hide the lower half of my face. I put on a pair of nonprescription glasses, the ones I use on camera when I want to be a disobedient secretary or a straitlaced professor. Or a landing zone for a guy with a cum-on-your-glasses fetish.

  I move to the safe and grab cash. A thousand bucks in twenties. Paired with Marcus’s money, it’s more than enough to cover my needs with some extra for a bribe, should one pop up its head and need to be courted.

  Then I use my intelligence. Pile my hair on my head. Wrap it in Saran Wrap like I once saw on a Lifetime movie. Pull a wool hat over it, return my hoodie to the upright position, and step outside, locking my door, the scent of bleach still strong, the duffel bag tossed over a shoulder. In my pocket, my phone rings. I ignore it and step for the elevator. Skip the stairwell entrance and listen to the ache in my legs, the weight of my bag. Swallow my I’m-a-badass pride and get on the elevator.

  The key fob works, my guess at his car confirmed, one block down. I move quickly, tossing my bag into the passenger side and moving the seat forward, mentally reminding myself to put it back once finished. Then I drive, keeping the radio where it is, on a sports station, the discussion unfamiliar, my brain listening for a good stretch before I reach out, stab the button with a gloved finger, having had enough of statistics and football chatter to last me this trip. I take the highway, travel a hundred miles west, then exit and follow the signs for the Oklahoma City airport. Pull into long-term parking, pocket the ticket, move the seat back, and grab my bag. Lock the car, keep the keys, and walk into the airport, bag in hand, head down. No one looks, no one cares. I use the restroom, buy a Happy Meal, spend ten minutes reading in a worn seat by the baggage claim, then swing by an automatic trash can. Toss the keys in with my trash and walk out. Get in the first taxi in line.

  “Downtown, please.”

  The driver says nothing, just nods, slouches in his seat, and drives. We ride in silence, ’80s rap playing through the speakers until the yellow cab hits the morning streets of downtown. I have the couldn’t-care-less-about-my-safety cabbie drop me in front of a Walgreens, then I walk through downtown, flag a new taxi, and give the driver the address of a hotel four blocks from my apartment. He frowns, plugs it in his GPS. “That’s a good hour and a half away. You gonna be okay with that fare?”

  From the privacy of the backseat I pull a handful of cash out, count out four hundred-dollar bills and push them through the window. “Will this cover it?”

  He takes the money. “Buckle up.” Then he does what I’d hoped he’d do. Reaches out and turns off the meter. I stretch out in the backseat, put my head on my duffel bag, my face out of sight, and sleep, dragged easily into it by the hum of the road beneath our tires, the city disappearing into the night sky, passing streetlights fading until it is just darkness, the soft sound of radio, and the wheeze of the heat slipping through the back vents. I sleep, guilt fading a little as I leave the last piece of him alone and deserted in the long-term parking lot of the Oklahoma City airport. I saw an article once that described a woman who racked up $105,000 in airport rental fees after her car sat in the long-term parking lot for three years. I wonder, as sleep drugs my mind, how long it will take before the Mercedes is noticed. If it will be impounded and auctioned off or if police will be contacted. If…

  I sleep.

&
nbsp; The man calls out, his voice dragging me into awareness. “You said the Red Roof Inn, right?”

  I sit up, adjusting my hat to make sure I am covered. “Yeah.”

  “We’re here. You sure you want to stay here? This area looks pretty rough.”

  “I’m good.” I crack the door, the burst of cold air making me regret my decision to walk the four blocks home. “Thanks.”

  “Have a good night.”

  I don’t look back. Blink and try to fully wake, my limbs sluggish, my left leg asleep as I limp from the car, into the cold day. The bright sun should have cast a cheerful light on my street, minimizing the street filth and homeless mounds. It doesn’t. I stuff my free hand into my pocket, heft the duffel bag over my shoulder, and walk. Walk and think of my apartment. Warm, clean, and empty. Even my shower, with its puny spray, is tempting at this moment in time.

  The guilt problem gets solved an hour later, when I have showered and changed, the truck is back at Hertz, and FtypeBaby and I are having a getting-reacquainted visit to the tune of a hundred and four miles per hour. Open skies, empty highways, a deathly sprint that will one day get me pulled over or smashed into a hundred pieces… but this time, when my phone rings, Marcus finally and completely taken care of, I answer it. Ready to hear Mike’s voice. Ready to forgive his weakness. Ready to hear that my money, as unused as it may be, is back where it belongs. Not ready to hear the first words out of his mouth.