Morgan found himself looking at the Pill Giver’s face, but he struggled to make a connection. Pale skin. Black, greasy, shoulder-length hair. Dark, sorrowful eyes. Who was he?
“How are you today, Dad?” the Pill Giver asked.
“Alright,” Morgan said. “Are you Timmy?”
“No, Dad,” the Pill Giver said with slight exasperation. He shook his head. “I’m not Tim, Dad. Tim has been dead for a long time. I’m your son, Drake.”
“How did he die?”
“A car accident.”
“But we were at the beach, with Dad, throwing baseballs.”
“I know, Dad, I know,” the Pill Giver said. “Are you in pain? Do you need more Oxycotin?”
“What?”
“More medicine? Would you like more medicine?”
Morgan nodded. The medicine would bring relief. The pressure in his head would subside.
“Okay, then I’ll be right back. I thought we had some more in supply, but I was wrong. I’ll be back shortly.”
“What is happening here? To me?”
The Pill Giver looked at him thoughtfully. “You have a brain tumor, Dad. Glioblastoma. It’s almost over, you don’t have much longer, and I’m doing my best to make you comfortable and relaxed during this time. And, like I promised you, I’m going to take care of the parasites before you die. Every last one of them. I’m doing this for you, Dad. All of this is for you, because I promised you that I wouldn’t let you slip away in vain.”
“The parasites?”
“Yes, the parasites. You used to talk about them all the time after you lost your job five years ago. Remember how hard you tried to cling onto this house? You drained everything you and Mom worked for to hold onto this place. Remember how much you sacrificed? And you’d look around at all these rich, sycophantic neighbors who didn’t give you and your struggles a single charitable thought. You remember all that, Dad? And even before all that, when Mom died, you didn’t get one knock on the door, not one card, not one bouquet of flowers from them, did you?”
Morgan nodded, but he had a hard time keeping up with the Pill Giver’s words. He clutched his blanket and looked up at the ceiling. He thought he could hear the shadowy girl weeping in the corner of the room.
“The plan is all ready, Dad,” the Pill Giver said. “I’m doing it for you. These leeches are gonna pay. All of them.”
Morgan noticed that the Pill Giver had a gun in his hand. The Pill Giver leaned toward him and kissed him on the forehead. Morgan looked into the man’s dark eyes, at his yellowed teeth, and at the handgun.
“It’s the Fourth of July today,” the Pill Giver said, “and you’re not gonna have to suffer much longer, Dad. But I’ll still get you the Oxycotin. And tonight, I’ll make sure you go out without any pain. That’s a promise. No more suffering for you. And when you’re gone, I’m gonna teach those punks what real pain and suffering means. I’m gonna even the score tonight, Dad. I’m gonna even it.”
Morgan coughed, and when he did, his head throbbed. It felt like someone was tightening a vise around his skull.
“I’ll take out as many of them as I can, but I’ll be right behind you, Dad. We’ll be with Mom again, and we’ll be together. No more pills and pain. I love you, Dad. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” Morgan said and took hold of the Pill Giver’s hand. “Thank you for helping me, Timmy. It’s so good that you come here and help me. I couldn’t have a better brother.”
Chapter Fifteen
I woke up very early on July 4th even though I had gone to bed much later than I should have. Whenever I take too much time off from writing a novel, the idea starts to become stale in my mind, and I remember wanting to get back into my manuscript before I lost my rhythm.
I brewed a cup of my favorite coffee, took a seat in front of the computer, pulled up my manuscript, and sat in the silence of my office for a long time before getting back into the story. It was difficult to clear my mind; my discovery of Drake in the back alley and his notebook the night before were still bugging me. And. once again, I found it difficult to concentrate.
I managed to get in an hour or so of progress, but despite my efforts, it was slow and painstaking. Sometimes the words flow effortlessly; other times, constipation of the imagination sets in, and the flat sentences and paragraphs must be painfully squeezed out. At the end of that hour, I glanced back over what I’d written, sipped my coffee, and decided I would crawl back into bed and get some sleep. Bad writing days almost always put me in a grumpy mood, and I thought it might help to get another hour or two of rest.
When I crawled back into bed, my wife reached over and put her arm around me. She moved her hand up and down my chest.
“Back so soon?” she asked, half-asleep.
“Yeah. Words didn’t want to cooperate this morning.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I can make you feel better.”
She kissed me on the cheek, snuggled into me, and closing her eyes, fell back to sleep. I must have conked out right after her, and I felt much better when I woke up later. It was nine or maybe even ten o’clock. We hadn’t moved an inch, but my wife was kissing me again. Not a bad way to wake up.
“You ready for today?” she asked. “Big day. Fourth of July.”
“I guess so. The kids are gonna have fun. Especially Toby. Owen, I’m not so sure. I think if he’s anywhere with that girl he likes, he’ll be happy. Where’s Toby? What’s he doing?”
“Probably watching cartoons in his room. And Owen probably won’t be up for hours, which means you and I have a little alone time. I say we put on a little fireworks show of our own. What do you think?”
“I think that doesn’t sound so bad,” I said, kissing her. For several minutes we lay in bed, kissing each other, touching each other, enjoying this moment of one-on-one attention that would certainly be lost once the trials and tribulations of the day began. We lost ourselves in that moment. Before long, my wife’s shirt was off, so was mine, and our bare skin was pressed into each other. I completely forgot about my bad writing day and the strange encounter I’d had with Drake the evening before in the back alley. All of those concerns faded away, like the last sparks of one of those big fireworks the night before slipping down the nighttime sky.
“Why don’t I put on something fun to wear,” my wife said suddenly, and jumping out of the bed, raced for the closet. I already knew what she meant. Lingerie, of course. She was going to put on one of my favorites, for sure, and I put my hands behind my head, looked up reflectively at the ceiling, and waited for her return. My wife loved lingerie about as much as I loved taking it off her.
She came back into the bedroom a moment later, but she was topless and only wearing her panties. No lingerie.
“Couldn’t make up your mind, I take it?” I teased.
“It’s gone. My drawer of lingerie is empty. Not there.”
It was difficult for me to make out if she was upset or just confused.
“What do you mean it’s not there?” I asked.
“I mean, it’s not there. It’s like the jewelry box, Eddie. It’s just gone.”
“Did you ever find the jewelry box? I thought you said it might be in the garage.”
“No, I didn’t find it. I just assumed it was misplaced, but this is weird.”
“Yeah, kinda weird,” I said, sitting up in bed. “But look, it’s got to be here. We’ve already had this conversation, right? I doubt someone snuck into our house, took that jewelry box, and then came back to take your lingerie. I’d believe Owen was a cross-dresser and was sneaking into our closet before I’d believe that. You must have misplaced it, Maddie, you must have.”
She crawled back into bed, but the passion had almost been completely snuffed out, and it was apparent that our romantic rendezvous was going to take an intermission. I could tell my wife was troubled. She lay in bed next to me, staring at the ceiling, and I could almost hear the gears turning inside her head as she tried to make sense of
it.
“Eddie, this is really weird.”
“I know,” I said.
After perhaps a full minute of just lying there thinking, she turned toward me, and I saw the fear on her face. I can still remember that look. My wife doesn’t get frightened or disheveled very often but, when she does, she certainly wears her heart on her sleeve.
“You don’t think that’s true, do you? It can’t possibly be?” she asked me.
“What are you talking about?”
“About Owen being a cross-dresser? Do you think? I mean, jewelry and lingerie both missing? It kind of adds up, doesn’t it?”
I felt my face wrinkling with disgust.
“Babe, I was joking. It was a joke.”
“I know, I know, but it kinda makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Babe, this is the same boy who spent last night with that blond girl at the fountain, probably making out the whole time. I doubt he’s spending his nights wearing your lingerie and jewelry.”
“Her name’s Candice.”
“Whatever,” I said, but it occurred to me that maybe the reason I had such a hard time remembering her name was because somewhere inside me, I didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that I was old enough to be the father of a boy who was dating. It made me feel old; perhaps ascribing a name to her actually made me acknowledge that fact on some deeper level. Who knows?
Seeing my wife look so concerned over the notion of Owen sneaking into her room and putting on her clothing seemed so ridiculous to me, I couldn’t help but crack up right there. I don’t think she appreciated it, and she looked upset. It was a strange reversal of roles, because usually my wife could find the humor in just about anything.
“Eddie, I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because it seems ridiculous. You honestly want me to lie here and have a discussion about Owen being some kind of transvestite?”
“Well, you don’t have to laugh at me,” she said, and I knew the romantic rendezvous that seemed inevitable just moments before was definitely cancelled. “I wasn’t trying to be funny, Eddie. I was trying to have a serious talk. It doesn’t make someone feel good when you laugh at them.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you.”
“Really? Well, then what were you laughing at?”
“The idea of it.”
“The idea of it,” she said, repeating my words. “What is that supposed to mean? Isn’t that just another way of saying you were laughing at me? Do you know how that makes someone feel?”
It was the second time in less than a minute that she’d used the word feel and this time, it clicked in my head. I took note of the date and did the math quickly.
“Maddie, you’re taking this way too seriously,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. If there’s one thing about my wife, it’s this: she never resists genuine affection. I love that about her. “I’m not laughing at you. I think it’s a certain time of the month, and you’re getting a little emotional right now, if you know what I mean. You’re getting a little out there, babe.”
She squinted her eyes. “So you’re blaming it on that, huh?”
“I’m not blaming it on anything,” I said. “I just can’t believe I’m lying in bed having a discussion about this. Your feelings shouldn’t be hurt because I don’t think our son is a cross-dresser. You’re being too weird and emotional about this, okay? I’m not a cross-dresser, Owen isn’t a cross-dresser, and I doubt Toby has marched into your closet to try on your lingerie in between watching The Wizard of Oz. This is something you should be happy about. I think you must have misplaced the lingerie when you cleared out the closet. That must have been what happened to the jewelry box too. There’s no other woman in this house who wants to wear your lingerie and your jewelry.”
“Maybe not in this house,” my wife said, catching me off guard. I could tell she was going to drop the whole cross-dresser conspiracy theory, but now, suddenly, she had gone onto something new.
“What are you talking about?
“They seem like things a woman would want, though I’m not sure who would want to wear another woman’s lingerie,” she said. “What about that Samantha woman across the street? She’s totally into you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Looking back, I don’t know why I played so ignorant. Of course, Samantha was into me. After my evening in her home, that was beyond apparent.
“I wonder if she’s crazy like that,” my wife said. She looked at the ceiling, and once again, I could almost hear the gears turning in her head. “If she’s so into you and wants you, maybe she snuck into our house and took my jewelry and my lingerie. I’ve heard of women who have done that. It’s their way of taking the place of the wife.”
“I don’t know, babe,” I said. “I think I’d believe the cross-dressing theory before I’d believe that one.”
“Have you talked to her recently?” Madison asked, sitting up in bed. She looked at me, and I felt her stare pin me like a butterfly. It wasn’t accusative, and in all honestly, she probably didn’t mean much by it, but I knew that it would require lots of explanation if I was going to answer this question. I wasn’t convinced that this was the best time to go there, and when I paused, she sensed it. Her eyes squinted again and her head tilted just slightly.
“Kind of,” I said. I wasn’t sure if it was the truth, or a lie, or a little of both, but that was what came out of my mouth. I couldn’t look her in the eyes either. If there’s one weakness I have—and a weakness my wife is well aware of—it’s my complete inability to look her in the eyes if I’m dancing around the truth.
“What do you mean?”
I was trying to formulate some kind of answer when, to my relief, the doorbell rang. Madison looked at me peculiarly, got out of bed, and threw on a robe. My wife and I have always been very forthcoming with each other in everything, so I don’t think she suspected an affair or anything of that nature, but she knew something was askew. She went downstairs to see who was at the front door, and I lay in bed, rubbing my face, knowing I was going to have to explain my paranoid venture to Samantha Wheeler’s bedroom.
Jenna Paisley was downstairs. I recognized her voice. Madison and my wife were talking, and at first, I assumed Jenna had come over to see what we were doing that day; perhaps it would be good to walk together to the park later on and enjoy some of the holiday festivities. But before long, it became apparent that they weren’t just talking. Jenna was crying and sounded very upset. I threw the blankets off me, got out of bed, and walked over to the door of our bedroom. It was ajar, and I opened it a little more and tried to make sense of the downstairs conversation.
“I just don’t know what’s gotten into him lately,” Jenna said through sniffles and sobs. She had a loud voice, and I could hear her clearly. “He just hasn’t been himself. He’s saying the weirdest things.”
“I’m sorry, dear, would you like some coffee? Just let me know,” my wife said.
Clearly Darrel and Jenna had had a bad argument, and Jenna had come over here to lick her wounds and find comfort with another woman.
I was about to turn away and take a shower before Toby was up and out of his room and the chaos officially began, when I heard something that caught my attention. I stood there, one hand on the door, the other on the wall, paralyzed.
“He thinks I’m having an affair,” Jenna said. “We had an argument over something completely unrelated, and all of a sudden, it came out. He thinks I’m sneaking around behind his back. It was crazy listening to him.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear.”
“I just don’t know what’s wrong with him. Sometimes I think the divorce he went through with his first marriage really messed him up. He doesn’t think it did because he was so young, but it really wounded him. He thinks I’m gonna do the same thing that she did. I’ve tried to explain to him how ridiculous that is, but he doesn’t believe me. I just had to get out of the
house for a little bit.”
“I understand, I understand. You’re welcome to relax here for a bit if you’d like.”
“He was so upset, he even mentioned your husband, Eddie.”
“Eddie?”
“Me?” I whispered in disgust. Now I wasn’t going anywhere. I opened the door and crept forward a few feet so I could hear better. I was only wearing boxer shorts, but they were downstairs and around the corner in the living room. They wouldn’t see or hear me here.
“Yeah, he mentioned Eddie,” Jenna went on. “He said something about seeing Eddie leaving Samantha Wheeler’s house the other night and how there must be something in the water here that’s causing spouses to want to cheat on each other. Obviously, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s being paranoid.”
I felt like someone had punched me in the gut and knew the conversation about my trip to Samantha’s was inevitable. The timing of Jenna’s comment was impeccable. I was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
“I’m sure he’s just very upset,” my wife said in response to Darrel’s claim that I had been over at Samantha’s, but as her husband, I could hear the restrained tone of her voice. She meant, I don’t think my husband’s having an affair, but there’s something he isn’t telling me, and we are going to have a LONG conversation about this.
I took a long, hot shower, and while I got dressed, I debated with myself exactly how to explain what had happened at Samantha’s. Did my wife need to know everything? I wasn’t entirely sure. I had clearly turned down Samantha’s advances, so I wasn’t worried about that, but I didn’t want to add any tension between my wife and her. I wasn’t sure how my wife would take the whole thing because, again, I’d never really been in that situation before.
As I threw on my shoes, I heard the doorbell ring. Now what?
On my way downstairs, I ran into Owen. He had just opened his bedroom door and was standing there in the same clothes he’d slept in.
Storm Taken: A Supernatural Thriller Page 8
