Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel)

by Meany, John

  “Unbelievable!” Troy said. “How do you drink vodka without mixing it with orange juice or something?”

  “You know what; you’ve given me an idea.” Ashley opened the door to her motel-style icebox. She grabbed the bottle of Mountain Dew that was next to a partially eaten bologna and cheese sandwich. After locating another clean glass, she filled it with soda. Then she downed another shot of booze, and proceeded to chase it down with an equal amount of Mountain Dew. “Ahhh! There, that ought to do the trick!”

  “You feel better?”

  “Much.”

  “Do you also drink when you paint?”

  “Sometimes. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether I’m feeling creative or not. Sometimes when I‘m not feeling imaginative a glass of wine or a few shots of vodka, can really make the canvas come alive.” She laughed. “Believe it or not, alcohol is a useful tool to have in your arsenal. Do research on famous artists and I guarantee you’ll learn that a lot of them, like musicians and poets, had a penchant for liquor. I‘m not advocating it, I‘m just saying facts are facts.”

  You’re lying, a voice in Ashley’s head whispered. This wasn’t a ghost. It was her conscience. You’re using the booze and pills to escape, not for creative purposes. You’re using the booze and pills because you’re a broken person. You’re not healed. Why don’t you just tell Troy the truth, the booze and pills helps you to cope with your pain. Fills the empty void. And right now, it’s helping you to not think about the missing gun.

  I can’t tell him that, Ashley thought. He won’t understand. I don’t know Troy well enough yet to share something so deeply personal.

  CHAPTER 33

  This early in the day, Troy was stunned to see Ashley drinking vodka. When he had first arrived, her mother had warned him that, again, this sort of thing might happen.

  On a more encouraging note, Claire Whittaker had praised Troy for comforting her daughter. The compliment made him feel good.

  “So what do you think?” Ashley asked, indicating the large canvasses that were stacked against the walls.

  “You did all these?” Troy asked, allowing his eyes to access everything around him. There were thirteen paintings, including the one on Ashley’s easel, which she claimed she was still putting the finishing touches on.

  “Yes. Care to voice an opinion?”

  “Whoa! These paintings are unbelievable,” he said, his voice bursting with admiration. “I mean, they’re so bright it’s as if they force you to have to look at them.”

  Her use of color, geometric shapes, and the way in which she distorted reality, was truly extraordinary.

  Ashley blushed. “I take it then that you like them?”

  “How could I not?” He tried not to pay attention to her splashing more vodka into her glass. “What about those paintings in the kitchen and living room, did you do those to?”

  “No, no,” She cracked up. “I wish. Those are Picasso prints. And a couple by Salvador Dali. My mom thinks I have an identical style, especially to Picasso.”

  “You do. No doubt. That‘s why I thought those might have been your paintings.”

  “I admit I am influenced by Picasso and little by Salvador Dali. Though, they’re not the only artists who inspired me. I’m also quite fond of Van Gogh and Monet . . . Van Gogh was brilliant with his mad, swirling brushstrokes. And Monet, what could one say about Claude Monet? The man was a magician.”

  “The only artist I’m familiar with,” Troy said, now studying Ashley’s pallet and her wide assortment of brushes. “Is that freaky guy from the 60’s with the white hair who used to paint the soup cans.”

  “Andy Warhol,” Ashley pointed out. “Yeah. He was an icon of the psychedelic generation. I never really liked him. I thought he was overrated.”

  To Troy the somewhat disturbing thing, at least three of Ashley’s paintings were clearly based on the night of the rape.

  One showed a baby lying near a dark forest, apparently dead.

  Another depicted a blonde-haired woman, bloody from being beaten, which Troy assumed was supposed to represent Ashley.

  Another illustrated a cartoon-like flashlight, with two human shapes following closely behind it.

  As Troy stared at this last intricate piece, he thought about when he and Adam had been trudging through the muddy field.

  Hmn?

  “I’ve gotta tell you, Ashley, if there’s anything positive that came out of what happened to you, it’s these paintings. I can’t repeat it enough, they really are spectacular . . . How long have you been an artist?”

  “I started when I was about six. But up until this year, I really hadn’t picked up a brush since about the age of nineteen or twenty. Though, of late, I’ve been thinking, I might try and see if a gallery will put some of my work on display.”

  “Yeah! You should,” he encouraged. “Your paintings are far too extraordinary to leave at your house. The world needs to see them.”

  ***

  For perhaps a half hour, they continued to discuss her art, before Troy eventually reminded Ashley of their tennis match.

  “Did you bring the extra racket?” she asked, standing next to her easel.

  “Yes. You’ll like it. It’s a Wilson, signed by Pete Sampras. It’s light. Really easy to serve with. I also brought some cold Gatorade and three cans of balls. So we’re all set.”

  “Bravo to that.” She tossed back one final gulp of vodka, and then slammed the glass down. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Don’t forget, your mother wanted you to give your dog a bowl of water.”

  “That’s right. Thanks for bringing that to my attention. I would have left without doing that. Although I don‘t know why my mom leaves the puppy outside. She could always lock him in the kitchen. Even if he goes to the bathroom on the floor, it’s not like it’ll get ruined.”

  “Maybe she’s afraid he’ll chew on stuff. Or get in the garbage. He could be one of those puppies who likes to take all the trash out of the can and scatter it all over the room.”

  “You might be right,” Ashley agreed, as they now made their way up the cellar steps. “I guess I should give my mom credit for something.”

  ***

  Standing beside the small collie‘s doghouse, Troy said, “So this is, what’d you say his name was?”

  “Albert.”

  “What‘s up, Albert?”

  “I don‘t think he understands. Maybe you should bark.”

  “Ha. Ha. Maybe I should. He’s awfully playful.”

  The cheery dog would not stop jumping on Troy’s leg.

  “Albert. Here’s some water,” Ashley said, putting the bowl down on the ground. “I also have some bologna.” She looked at Troy. “Do you want to feed him?”

  “Sure. Does he bite?”

  “No. C’mon silly, even if he did, he’s too small to hurt you.”

  After Troy fed the pup, Ashley, who wore a tight pink shirt, and equally tight blue shorts, made sure the house was locked.

  In Troy’s air-conditioned Subaru with the radio on softly, she went to light a cigarette, and then uttered a resounding, “No!”

  Ashley told Troy she was going to make a conscious effort not to smoke today. Then she elaborated that she did not want to become out of breath on the court, which he doubted would happen, unless the vodka slowed her down.

  To him, she looked to be in exceptional shape.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Don’t sweat it girls,” Mark Gilbert shouted jokingly from his car to Claire and his wife Rachel. “Leave all that baby stuff to me. I’m so good with kids; you ought to call me Mr. Mom.”

  “Yeah,” Claire said from the dock. “Maybe we should, Mark.”

  “Dear,” Rachel joked back, “do you want to borrow one of my dresses? You’d look lovely in a gown. Even with the spare-tire gut.”

  “Ha! Ha! Very funny.”

  “See ya
later. About dinnertime.”

  “Okay. So long girls. Have fun.

  “We will.”

  Lugging their cooler full of salads, Saltine crackers, cheese, and soft drinks, Claire and Rachel waved to Mark Gilbert, and then boarded the sailboat. The long rickety dock was located on the southern tip of Wichita, not far from the Gilbert’s ranch house. They lived a mile away.

  “I think it’s fairly obvious,” Rachel commented a few minutes later, “that my husband doesn’t want to be around us.” She untied the bowline.

  “How do you figure that?” With mild interest, Claire watched a yacht exit the harbor. She could smell its diesel exhaust and feel its far-stretching wake rocking the boat. “He told you?”

  “Yeah. Last night. In so many words.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Mainly that he’s sick and tired of hearing us talk about Ashley.”

  “Can’t say that I blame him,” Claire admitted, holding herself accountable. “We have been dwelling on my daughter’s problems to no end . . . I feel bad for Mark. I really do. Every time I come over your house, it’s like a therapy session. No wonder he always hops in his car and goes for a drive.”

  Rachel nodded. Since there wasn‘t enough of a breeze this afternoon to sail, she had to crank the motor. “Now that we’re on the subject of Ashley again, has she mentioned anything about the missing gun?”

  “Uh huh. She finally said something this morning during breakfast.”

  “Really? What does she think happened to it? She doesn‘t suspect that we got rid of it?”

  “No! Not at all. In her mixed-up mind, for all she knows, she could have lost the gun anywhere. And she doesn’t seem to care. Right now, aside from her artwork and Kimberly, the only thing Ashley seems to care about is Troy.”

  Rachel sensed the conflict in her friend’s voice. “And that worries you? I mean the part about Troy?”

  “Of course it worries me.”

  “Why? You’re the one who went to the supermarket and practically begged this guy to go and see her.”

  While she unfastened the rope at the stern that was connected to the barnacle-corroded piling, Claire frowned. “Yes. I’m well aware of that. It’s just I don’t want to see my daughter get hurt. Ashley’s been through enough!”

  “Well, that’s understandable.”

  Claire paused for a moment, and then in a faraway voice she added, “I’m glad we threw her gun in the river, but I’m kind of bothered that I still can’t locate the morphine. Eve phoned me again and asked if I had any luck.”

  Rachel’s expression became solemn. “Maybe Ashley didn’t really steal the pills. Eve and Brad Ferguson have no proof of that. I think for now, Claire, you should stick with the facts.”

  “You’re right.”

  “They had so many guests at that party; anyone of them could have taken the morphine.”

  “True. But you can’t fault me for worrying about how Troy is going about giving Ashley a shoulder to cry on. The way I see it, I have a legitimate reason for being concerned.”

  Before setting off on their voyage, Rachel went through the usual routine of checking to make sure they had lifejackets onboard.

  Occasionally when Mark would give the boat a thorough cleaning, with the hose and a bucket of soap, as he had done the day before, he would take the life preservers off, along with a lot of other stuff; clothing, shoes, flares, magazines, etc. And sometimes, rather than remember to put these items back onboard, he would leave everything in the trunk of his car. This time he did not forget. The lifejackets were accounted for.

  “Claire, I bet you any amount of money that today, this guy will tell Ashley he has a girlfriend.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “He will. And tonight when you see her, I bet Ashley won’t even be bothered by it.”

  “Oh. I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Suddenly, from the pocket of her Paisley shirt, Claire withdrew a sheet of paper. “In fact, I think you’re completely wrong.”

  “Don‘t tell me,” Rachel exclaimed, sighing. “You were snooping through her diary again?”

  “I’m afraid so. This is Ashley’s most recent entry. I made a copy of it earlier when she was outside playing with the dog.”

  Devotion

  The celebration of

  Cupid’s gift

  is what we all hunger for

  in order to be healthy

  That‘s life’s remedy

  Love

  True love

  I’m so excited. Troy is coming over tomorrow to look at my paintings. I hope he likes them.

  Shaking her head, Rachel uttered, “That’s so sad. I feel sorry for her. When deep down, all Ashley wants is what we all want, and that’s for someone to love.”

  “I know but-”

  “Claire, maybe you shouldn’t take everything your daughter writes in her diary literally. Remember, she is the artsy type, and we both know highly creative people have overactive imaginations. Heck, just look at her paintings. It’s like they’re from another dimension.”

  “So, you think she’s making this stuff up, seeing ghosts and lying about almost shooting herself?”

  Rachel got behind the steering wheel. “No. That’s not what I’m getting at. C’mon! Mainly I think she’s being overly dramatic.”

  Now, as the sailing vessel gradually departed from the dock, Claire glanced toward the other side of the river where there were men in a motorboat, crabbing. Other vessels were also traveling through the channel, as well as a few people on noisy jet skis.

  “What are you thinking, Claire? You have that suspicious gleam in your eyes like you’re planning something.”

  Claire started to smear creamy Coppertone on her face and neck. Being blonde with fair skin she tended to burn easily.

  “I am planning something. I’m going to tell Troy he needs to be clear with my daughter. That he needs to let Ashley know he isn’t interested in pursuing a relationship, and that all he wants is to be her friend. That’s what I’m thinking! If you must know.”

  “Was Ashley drunk today?” Rachel asked.

  “Not that I could tell.”

  “So when Troy came over to pick her up she was perfectly sober?”

  “She seemed to be. Anyway, she was talking all right. I would hope for her sake that she wouldn’t be sneaking booze when she’s intending to be out in the eighty-five degree heat playing tennis. That would be a pretty stupid thing to do with the threat of dehydration.”

  CHAPTER 35

  The sun-drenched tennis courts in Kensington were well tended to, the surface was green cement. When Ashley and Troy arrived, they immediately began to serve and volley.

  “How do you feel?” Troy asked, hitting a soft backhand.

  “Much better,” Ashley replied, “now that we ate lunch.” What had caused the mild nausea, she suspected, was likely due to drinking the vodka on an empty stomach, combined with the lingering side affects from the morphine she had stolen from Brad. That particular stuff was stronger than the pain pills she’d been getting from Kitty. In fact, the first time Ashley had taken the pain pills that she had gotten from Brad’s medicine cabinet, she could barely move. She had sat on the couch in the living room watching TV, essentially staring into the Twilight Zone.

  “I’m surprised you managed to eat all of those spareribs.”

  “Me too.” Ashley lobbed the ball toward the baseline. It had just made it in. “That Texas Steak House had the tastiest barbeque ribs I’ve ever had.”

  “That’s Kensington’s new gold mine,” Troy explained. “Ever since that restaurant opened last summer, they have a huge crowd in there almost every day.”

  Inspecting her racket, Ashley smiled. “I’ll have to go there again. Next time I think I’ll order the Buffalo wings, to see if they‘re as good.”

  “Oh they are. Everything in that place is good.”

  Ashley was enjoying Troy’s
company immensely. If Saturday night wasn’t a date, she knew today had to be. The way he’d been treating her, with the utmost respect, felt like a man who had romance on his mind.

  “Whew!” Troy kidded, as the ball bounced past Ashley’s outstretched racket. “You missed that serve by a mile. Do you think you’ll be able to keep up with me?”

  “If I didn’t think I could,” she teased back, “I wouldn’t have agreed to come out here to play.” In the baking sunshine, her lustrous hair looked even blonder than usual. “Do me a favor, though, don’t serve to my backhand. That’s my weak side. Let me warm up first.”

  “Okay. I‘ll try to take it easy on you.” Troy’s next serve, much like the last one, bounced past Ashley’s flailing racket. “Hey! What is this? I thought you told me you played back in high school.”

  “I did.” She giggled. “That was seven years ago. I’m a little out of practice.” Already tiny droplets of perspiration had begun to crystallize on her forehead.

  “Who’s your favorite player?” he asked, watching Ashley chase the ball to the chain-link fence.

  They had the courts to themselves. Beyond the fence traffic traveled up and down the highway.

  “On the lady’s side I like Venus Williams. On the men’s, Jim Courier.” They got another volley going. The ball echoed with a consistent thud. “Why, who’s your favorite player?”

  “Aggassi,” he said, darting to the left. “And Steffy Graff. Although, when I was growing up, I liked John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors. Talk about hot heads, every time those guys played, it was like a scream fest.”

  “I know. They were before my time, but I saw videos of them. Who do you think acted crazier?”

  “Oh definitely John McEnroe. He complained about everything, and not just when he played against Connors. He was like that no matter whom he played against. I would have hated to have to umpire one of his matches. Yet I think that’s what tennis fans enjoyed about Johnny Mac, he made things interesting. As great as Pete Sampras is, he‘s kind of boring to watch.”