Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

  Danny knows the reasons he’s needed additional assistance these last few months: he hasn’t been focused on work. Sometimes he just zones out like he’s floating in space. God Almighty, he used to zero in on things like a laser beam. “Detail Dan” was what Angela would jokingly call him. But for the past ten months, he’s been lucky if he remembered to slip into his pants in the morning. And Angela’s noticed it big-time.

  “You’re not listening to a word I say,” she calls after him as he wanders through the house, looking for his wallet or car keys, which always seem to be misplaced. “You’re in another world,” she mutters as he retraces his steps for the third time, searching for his watch or cell phone.

  “Angela, I’m late and I need my cell phone.”

  “I swear, Danny, you’re out of it these days. You were never this way … not till last May or June. What’s happened to you?”

  Dan’s thoughts are interrupted by a nerve-jangling blast of sound that sends him lurching forward. It’s the telephone. He picks up the receiver.

  “Daniel Burns …” he says, trying to sound professional.

  “Danny, when are you coming home?”

  “Angela, honey … I have a ton of work.”

  “Daniel …”

  She uses his formal name only when she’s really annoyed, totally pissed. She picked it up from Ma, years ago. But nowadays, she uses Daniel way too often. It annoys him, but why start an argument? It’ll just bring on another headache.

  “You’re always late and you’re always at the office. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, Angela … please stop this nonsense.”

  “I can’t. You’ve been living at the office. You used to rush home so we’d have dinner together at six, as a family. Now you’re a ghost.”

  Ghost. The word sends a shiver through him. And it runs the risk of throwing his lungs into a full-blown asthmatic attack. Ghost. It was Grange’s moniker, and it reminds him of that horrific night in the woods with Roddy and Kenny.

  “What’s happening with you? Can you tell me something … anything?”

  “I’ve been working on some personal deals for Jack Sobin—for John Harris, too. It’s gotten very complicated and I—”

  “Oh, c’mon. You’ve always hired people a few months before tax time. You never stayed at the office this late. I’ll bet you’re there alone, right?”

  “Look—”

  “Am I right? You’re there alone. No help?”

  “I know, but—”

  “Danny, what’s going on?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “It’s not because of tax time. It’s been almost a year since I had the real Danny … my Danny.”

  “C’mon, Angie. You’re exaggerating.”

  “No, I’m not. Since you guys got rid of that restaurant, you’ve changed.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’ve been jumpy. And remote.”

  “Remote?”

  “Yes, remote. As though you’re not really here with me and the kids anymore. And Tracy says it’s the same with Roddy. She sometimes sees him with this faraway look in his eyes. What’s with you two?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But he does; he knows precisely what she means. Since that night upstate, it feels like he’s been living in the arctic tundra—alone and in a whiteout.

  “Yes, you do. You know exactly what I mean.”

  Danny’s about to protest, but he knows Angela’s right. She’s nobody’s fool, and she reads him like a fortune cookie. He closes his eyes and sighs.

  “Oh, Dan … can’t you tell me what’s bothering you? We’ve never kept things from each other …”

  A feeling of futility seeps through Danny. How can he tell Angela that he and Roddy live every day wondering if the guillotine’s blade will drop? They worry the Jersey mob or the Russian Brotherhood or Grange’s shadowy associates will slither out from beneath a rock and come gunning for them.

  And how can he ever tell Angela about that night near that isolated pond with the peeping frogs, the lanterns, and the crickets—the night that changed their lives forever?

  Jesus, this is torture, Danny thinks. He and Roddy will never escape the monster they created by going into business with Kenny Egan, now rotting in the swampy soil an hour from where he, Angie, and the kids live in Tuckahoe.

  “Listen, Angela …”

  “Don’t give me that Listen, Angela …”

  Dan wants to object to Angela’s characterizations, but he knows it’ll be little more than some feeble protestation. And the frailty of his denial will only deepen Angela’s conviction that something’s wrong—very wrong. He’s about to say something—anything that will cut short this mind-numbing discussion—when Dan hears something near the office door. Is it a creaking sound? It could be someone walking across the outer office’s wooden floor. Or maybe it’s the wind rattling the windowpanes and he’s hearing it from down the corridor.

  Still holding the receiver in his hand, Dan peers at the partially opened office door. Angela says something, but it’s merely a swirl of chatter tumbling in his right ear. Dan’s mind spins; there are no real thoughts, just a sense of something—a primal awareness of danger. He definitely hears something in the corridor, next to the small conference room to the right of his office. It’s nearly obscured by the rush of wind rattling the windowpane.

  Danny feels the hairs on his wrist standing as voltage sears through his nerve endings.

  Angela’s voice seeps through the telephone, but it’s just meaningless sound pouring from the receiver.

  “Wait, honey,” he says, craning his neck, but he sees nothing. Holding the phone receiver to his right ear, he says, “I’ll be home soon.”

  There’s movement—it’s in his peripheral vision, a blur—and in the moment it takes to realize it, Danny hears the office door swing open. He’s starts to swivel the chair; he squints and tries to focus on the door. He feels his body tense; a strange sound comes from the doorway—like the muffled pop of a cork being pulled from a wine bottle. In that moment, just as he turns the chair, Danny’s right hand and the telephone receiver explode in a shocklike blast. Shards of plastic slash his ear and face, and a searing sensation tears at the back of his head. The hand pain is so intense, it’s blinding.

  Danny is thrust back violently; the chair nearly topples over. His body tightens in paralytic fear. There’s another cork popping, and something slams into his chest—his lungs feel like they’re imploding as he and the chair pitch backward.

  The overhead lights swirl, and Danny realizes he’s lying on the floor. He hears something to his right—furniture moving or a cabinet opening—he can’t be sure. The room grows fuzzy.

  His breath comes in shallow bursts, and he hears a sucking sound from his chest. His mouth goes dry. He feels bone-crushing pain in his hand. He opens his eyes. The room pinwheels and he slaps his left hand to the floor, as if to steady himself in a whirlpool’s vortex. The room sways like a huge sea swell and then whirls. Everything is bleached, turns brilliantly white, and his insides shudder as though something crawls through his chest. Danny’s in a haze, and things get foggy, as the strangest thought streaks through his mind. Jesus, sweet Jesus … I deserve this.

  The chest pain recedes. The room swirls again—it’s a merry-go-round—then everything dims and grows cold. He shivers. It all seems muted and distant, and he suddenly feels he’s floating in a void.

  Then comes darkness.

 

 

 
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