Here’s where I lied, just enough to guarantee me expeditious entry into the gates of Hell, or the bars of a prison cell. I didn’t tell him about the bloody clothes, or the ghastly black bath of human blood in which Jack lounged with soporific oblivion. I struggled while I wove my mistruth, but instinct possessed me like jealous love.
No matter how ghastly, or how horribly wrong Jack’s deeds had been, my instinctual reaction was to protect my friend. I knew that this evidence, which only I held in my mind, was enough to crucify him.
You see, even then I didn’t know. I didn’t know what had really happened. True, I couldn’t expunge the image of his face drenched in blood. I couldn’t escape the inalienable fact that his hair, normally so perfectly arranged, was matted and twisted in caked, congealed globs. I couldn’t dismiss seven years of Jack’s friendship. Even though I knew him for what he did, who he was, and what he was becoming.
He tried to kill him! He’s not well. Had I been his Judge, presiding over his fate and without the slimmest microgram of bias…well, based upon what my eyes had imbibed, I would have sentenced him with utter prejudice. Maximum sentence.
But I wasn’t his Judge. I was his friend, and moral bargaining was the untenable ground which housed my resolution. I didn’t know for sure, and lame asshole that I am, I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. I laugh about it now, but it’s a sad laugh. Had our roles been reversed, Jack would never have afforded me the same consideration.
So I spun a tale, built mostly on solid fact tainted by copious alcoholic funk and a critical lie. I told him that Jack left the bar with the girls and that was the last time I saw him. The cop nodded and recorded everything I said. I was intimidated, confused and scared. His stern eyes peered into me, and I just knew that he saw through my omission. I felt myself digging the proverbial second grave, for I was in the process of aiding and abetting a suspected felon.
Was he? A criminal? He was in the process of being charged with a criminal offense. That didn’t make him a criminal, though. Innocent until proven guilty, right? He beat those girls. God knows how badly, but from the amount of blood on him…Jesus Christ.
I didn’t know the details yet and the cop wasn’t talking. He was happy to ask, but he wasn’t about to share. Later, when I knew exactly what had transpired, torturous nightmares of his body drenched with blood would haunt me. For now, all I had was incriminating visual evidence, which in my feeble mind was circumstantial and in desperate need of a better explanation.
This denial was fraught with viruses. My heart didn’t doubt that Jack committed this horrible act of bloody violence. It’s some kind of Dissociative Disorder. Apparently, it’s complicated by a form of Psychopathy.
The Officer took copious notes. He grilled me for fine detail about my activities with Red and asked me if I had known of or suspected Jack’s intentions. I resented the implication and tried to show a little indignation at the accusation, but I was still nervous, and thinking about the lie – the crime – I had just committed.
I think I must have come off as being guilty or at least hiding something, for he kept wanting to go over my activities, and Jack’s state when I walked in. I remained stalwart, as much as blood pounded live shockwaves through my brain. Fortunately, the pain in the back of my head was a willing accomplice to my lies.
Finally, when he was satisfied that he had gotten all he could, he nodded and stood up.
“We may need to ask you more questions, and you’ll probably be asked to testify in court. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else – no matter how insignificant you may think it is – call me. And son, you should have your head looked at.” I nodded. I didn’t need to be reminded of my head, as waves of agony flowed through it like a hurricane tearing a shack apart.
After he left, I scurried off the bed and closed the door with a slam. I shook uncontrollably and my head spun. I didn’t understand what was happening. All I knew was the raging fire at the base of my skull. Dizzy and unsure, I wondered what I should do next. It was then that I saw the phone and remembered Jack’s words, spoken so coolly while he was marched out by the Police.
Call my father’s office. They’ll know what to do.
Perhaps it’s time to have him committed.
I picked up the phone. My hands shook and I couldn’t see straight, so I don’t know how I dialed the number. I don’t even know how I remembered it. His receptionist answered and I trembled when I asked for him by name. She curtly informed me that he was in a meeting and could not be disturbed.
Frantically, almost screaming – I would have if the pain would have allowed it – I told her that it was urgent and explained that it involved his son. She put me on hold, and elevator music played on the line – I think it was Moon River. But it was just white noise. An eternity passed while I teetered on the side of the bed, but finally I heard a man’s voice.
“Malcolm?” It wasn’t his father. I had only met him the one time, but this voice was different.
“Yes, this is Malcolm,” I spoke carefully and quietly, for each new word out of my mouth was like a searing hot barb being driven into the middle of my skull. The man explained that he was Bernard Sampson, John’s Executive Assistant, and that he would take care of everything. I hadn’t even told him what happened, but he appeared to have some experience in dealing with situations which involved Jack or his father.
He listened carefully and calmly while I blurted out a disjointed version of the story. Although I was having a great deal of trouble concentrating, I managed to convey what had happened. When I finished, he didn’t speak for several moments, perhaps because he was writing everything down. Or assessing the situation. Finally, he spoke:
“What did you tell the Police?” I tried to be as succinct as possible, but it was getting harder to concentrate. When I told him of my omission of the bloody clothes, I could almost see him nodding and smiling.
“Good Boy. Now listen to me. This is extremely important. Do not, under any circumstances talk about what you witnessed. With anyone. Not your girlfriend, not your friends or family, and especially not lawyers or the Police. Do you understand?” I nodded, as if he could see my assent, but my head bobbed up and down like a boat on troubled waters, and I did not verbally respond.
“Are you alright? Malcolm, you still with us?” his monotone voice steadied me but I felt no comfort or compassion from it. I explained how I had fallen and hit my head, at which point he told me he would send a car over to take me to the hospital. He lectured me to not sleep, and then told me he’d take care of Jack’s situation. Simple, businesslike and without unnecessary emotion.
I hung up and sat there for a moment. I stood up on wireframe legs and prodded over to the window. As I watched people milling around the street, I was lulled by their walking, laughing, holding hands and arguing. Through my semi-conscious state I mused how they had no idea what suffering is. What it means to really live. I don’t know if I felt sorry for them or for me. Their lives were so simple and devoid of the demons that give pain and hardship in equal doses. I despised them, every one of them.
Sunlight washed into the room in a garish and useless attempt at bringing hope. It was almost heavenly but I’m sure that’s because I couldn’t focus my eyes. I thought about Jack. How could he do that? I imagined him succumbing to rage and beating those women. I had seen him in a rage before, so it wasn’t hard to imagine.
I thought about Red. The other Elizabeth. When I watched Jack and her friends leave together, what he had in store for them would never have occurred to me. It could just as easily have been Elizabeth. My Elizabeth, or the Elizabeth from the night before. Again I wondered how Jack could do it. I wondered what Red thought about all this. I wondered, but only briefly, what it made her think of me now. Great choice in friends, Malcolm. Although I hadn’t considered talking to her again, this incident gave me cause to talk to her. I knew I wouldn’t, though.
I left the door open and collapsed on my bed. I decided
in my uninformed capacity that lying down wouldn’t kill me, and my head throbbed out of control. The harsh effects of significant alcohol consumption only made it seem like the doctor who tells you – as an afterthought – that your cold is complicated by the fact that you also have AIDS. As I began to lose consciousness, my thoughts trailed back to what he’d done.
I never thought of it then but I think about it constantly now. While I questioned how he could do it, I never asked myself why he did it. You see, I couldn’t understand his motive – how could there be a motive for something like that? But in a terrifying revelation, I had no problem imagining Jack performing the savage act.
It’s some kind of Dissociative Disorder. Apparently, it’s complicated by a form of Psychopathy.
Chapter 19
The driver arrived about twenty minutes after I spoke with Bernard Sampson. When he walked in I was fast asleep, and after frantic attempts to wake me, he finally carried me to the car. Of course I don’t remember any of it, or anything else that transpired, until I regained consciousness in a hospital bed.
A doctor and nurse presided over me like patient vultures. I had received a severe concussion. They revived me, but the doctor – an arrogant prick who couldn’t just let it lie – grimly informed me that I had fallen asleep. Another fifteen minutes and they might not have been able to keep me from slipping into a coma. I was placed in a private room for observation, and I lay there quiet and alone, for a long time. I had no visitors and no calls on my first two days of consciousness. So I thought about Jack and Elizabeth.
On my third day in the hospital, my father came to visit me. He had been in Montreal on business, and even though he found out about my condition right away, he flew back only when his business was complete. He was angry and dead-serious when he walked into the room. But then again, he always looked that way. I had given up, a long time ago, trying to find concern in those eyes, but I have to admit, I was relieved to see him. Then again, after two days without any human interaction and being as scared as I was, I’d have been relieved to see almost anyone.
“How are you feeling?” he towered over me while his long black overcoat barely covered his conservative business attire. His posture and garb were reminiscent of a priest who stood over me and administered the Last Rites. I nodded in response to his question for I was at a loss for words, and there was no way to express how I really felt. Pursing his lips, he nodded at me and frowned thoughtfully.
“Jack’s been released on a half million dollar bond.” There was no alteration of his dark demeanor as he told me this. I suppose I must have perked up, because my father put his hand on my shoulder and firmly pushed me back down onto the bed.
“He was released into his family’s custody. I spoke to his uncle last night. This is a high-profile case, and you’re right in the middle of it.
“I’ve arranged for my lawyer to come in and speak with you.” I began to protest, but the look on his face was reason enough to cease all attempts. I knew better than to argue with that look.
“What’s going to happen to him?” I felt sick for having to ask the question. I didn’t comprehend most of what was happening, but I didn’t doubt the seriousness of it. For the past few days, I had been heavily sedated. And while I was still on painkillers, this was the first time that some lucidity managed to eke its way back into my thoughts.
“I don’t know, but it’s not good. His family’s already hired the best criminal lawyer money can buy. But the Police found his clothes, covered with the girls’ blood, in his shower locker. Besides being a violent criminal, your friend isn’t very smart.” A distasteful shadow formed over his face when he referred to Jack as my friend. I ignored the sleight. Despite his overpowering presence, I propped myself up in bed and stared dumbly at him. The clothes. I thought about the image. Caked in dried black blood.
“He dispensed of them after he showered. It’s a key piece of evidence. The lawyers are going to have a difficult time getting him off.
“Malcolm, he’s a very sick person.” My father sighed and watched me with disdain. I wondered if he was likening me to Jack, by virtue of our fraternal association. Notwithstanding an appropriate response, before I had a chance to process the concept he patted me on the shoulder, and something which almost resembled a smile appeared briefly on his lips.
“I don’t want you hanging around with him anymore. No more.” He held a forefinger at me as he repeated the words with emphasis. Then, as if satisfied that he had performed his requisite quarter-hour of fatherly duty for the month, he looked around for a chair. I thought about protesting at his last comment, but as if sensing my rebellion he put a palm toward me like a traffic cop.
I fell silent. There was no use arguing with him. Besides, I knew it was only a matter of time – an hour, give or take – before he totally forgot this conversation. He was a consistent man, and I appreciated, if not admired him for that.
Father sat down and we talked in brief monosyllabic sentences. In about five minutes his cell phone rang. After speaking on it only briefly, he excused himself, nodding at me and still talking on the phone as he swept out of the room. No doubt, it was an urgent business matter, and I nodded after him.
After that, I lay in bed for hours, trying to digest this unsavory meal of thoughts that I’d been served. I finally gave up trying to figure things out and was drifting into a sound sleep when the harsh ring of the hospital phone jolted me out of half-sleep. I awkwardly reached over and picked up the receiver.
“Hello.” I spoke weakly, still drugged and shaking the sleep out of my eyes.
“Malcolm?”
It was Elizabeth. My Elizabeth. I paused for what seemed an eternity. I didn’t know what to say. Everything that happened over the past few days engulfed me like a blizzard of emotion, grief, and guilt.
“Are you there?” Meek and frightened, like she already knew what I’d done. But there was no way she could have. The only people who knew about Red were Red, the Police and Jack – and he was in jail. For a moment, I imagined that maybe he decided to use his one call to screw me once and for all, but it was just paranoid fancy. He couldn’t be bothered and even if he could, it didn’t matter. She’d find out soon enough. It was about to become a matter of public record. The minute I testified, everyone would know of my infidelity. Elizabeth included.
“Yes.” I responded simply and without emotion, but there was something in my voice that was harsh and raspy. Inwardly, I was engaged in a raging debate with myself. Should I keep up the façade, or should I tell her what I had done to her? Of course I knew that I would not, could not, tell her about Red.
Better to draw it out and preserve her. The same way you water a rose knowing that you’re only going to keep it alive for a little longer. Devastation was inevitable, but I wasn’t ready to expedite the misery that our triangle of Hell was about to experience.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long week.” Familiar words from a familiar fool. My lame attempt was to try to make it sound like a joke, but she didn’t laugh and I don’t blame her. It wasn’t funny, nor was it ironic, not even to me. “How are you?”
“Worried about you. Why is Jack in jail? What’s happened? Oh my God, my parents just called, and they told me that something happened, but what? He’s been arrested for assault? Malcolm, what’s happening?” She sighed and paused. I knew what she was remembering.
”Malcolm, what happened to you? Are you okay? God, what’s going on? I’m confused.” I suppose that I should have resented the fact that she brought Jack up before asking about my condition, but at the time, I was just relieved to hear her voice.
“I know. I’m confused too. It seems like a horrible nightmare. Elizabeth, I don’t even know where to start. And I’m not exactly in the best condition to get into it right now.” My head pounded, but it was muffled by the pounding of my heart.
“I know. I wish I could be there. Are you alright? My parents said that you have a concussion, but you’re going to
be okay. Thank God. I wish I could be with you right now.” I wished so too.
“Look, I’m fine. A few days out of school, which is great. The food stinks, but the waitresses are cute and the service is great.” Ouch. Even in my diminished state, I knew this was stupid. I guess I was overcompensating for what I knew what was about to come. Fortunately, she ignored my gaffe and focused on the scandal. God bless you, Elizabeth.
“What happened? It was the drugs, wasn’t it? I knew they’d get him into trouble eventually. Who did he assault? God, what the Hell is wrong with Jack…” She stopped herself. I suppose she had been in denial about him too. I’m sure that it wasn’t until she uttered those words that she realized how ludicrous it was, for her of all people, to ask that question.
I paused. It was a really good question. What the Hell was wrong with him? I knew he had a few screws loose, a chassis that was falling apart as a result of it, and he was in need of a major overhaul. I also knew that he was an evil, irresponsible and misguided prick, but I had no idea that he was capable of doing something like this. It was mind-boggling and disturbing.
I thought about telling her what happened, about the two girls and the state that I had found him in the next morning, but I couldn’t. I knew that telling her the story would require me to tell her about my heart-breaking transgression. It was easier to lie to the cop.
“I don’t know. I can’t really talk about it right now. You never know who’s listening.” It was a weak excuse, but I didn’t have anything better and I was tired. “I never saw this coming. He obviously has some problems that even we weren’t aware of.”
Yeah, like raping the woman you love isn’t a major warning sign.
I paused, choosing my next words carefully. “What scares me the most…Elizabeth, I never had any idea. That he was this bad. I mean, the other night, he went from Jeckyll to Hyde in the blink of an eye.” My mention of the other night was the result of trying to get my head around the situation, but as soon as the words escaped from my lips, my balls crept up into my throat. I had given her something to latch onto.
The House that Jack Built Page 12
