The Starter Wife

by Grazer, Gigi Levangie

  Sam got into his sleeping bag and lay back, his hands tucked under his head, and stared up, past the barbed wire, to the sky. The moon, at its most full, its most bright, had denuded the stars. No matter, he thought. He was content. The moon had hypnotized him; he was as vulnerable as a deer caught in the headlights of a pickup truck.

  The hair on his arms suddenly stood on end. He had the sensation of being watched.

  Sam had never used the switchblade he had taken from the guy who had stolen his gear. He actually hadn’t even taken it from the guy—he’d found it on the very spot the man dropped it. The spot on which he’d snapped the man’s wrist in half. He figured no one else wanted a part of it; seeing how it hadn’t brought that particular guy much luck, no one else would touch it.

  But it proved lucky enough for Sam. Sam didn’t plan on using it as a weapon—in fact, since he’d been in the war, he didn’t like the idea of weapons in general. But the knife had a sharp, thin blade—all he had in his pack were a couple old butter knives. This one could cut apples or rope—whatever he needed.

  Whatever he needed.

  He waited, unmoving. This was his training, after all; he’d been trained, for two whole years, to lie in wait for the enemy. To lie still, breathing shallow, paint on his face, camouflage on his body, his helmet covered in leaves. He’d lie there as tropical snakes slithered over his body, attracted by the warmth of his blood; he’d lie there as centipedes marched over his face.

  He had no trouble lying still.

  Twigs snapped. Footsteps were falling heavily, haphazardly. The person was drunk or uncaring about disturbing his sanctuary.

  The switchblade was open in his hand.

  Three steps away.

  Sam closed his eyes.

  Two steps.

  He slowed his breath.

  One step.

  He tightened his grip—

  Sam sprang from his open sleeping bag and grabbed the offender around the neck, holding the blade to a pinpoint at the most vulnerable part of the carotid artery. If he pushed in one quarter inch, the man would die.

  Except as his surge of adrenaline retreated, he realized that in his arms was not a man but a woman.

  A woman wearing a damp nightgown.

  Sam released her as quickly as he had grabbed her. The intensity of the moment, the realization of what he had almost done to her, brought tears to his eyes, eyes that had not shed water in twenty years.

  That was a lie, Sam admonished himself. There was that old stray that got hit by a Mercedes on PCH. He had picked up her body from the highway, buried her in the back of the lagoon, and cried for days. He had hidden himself from everyone—Lavender,Mrs. Kennicot, everyone.

  Sam had tracked that Mercedes, which hadn’t bothered stopping after hitting the poor mutt, for weeks. When he’d finally seen the car, parked in a fire lane outside Nobu, he’d left a tidy souvenir in the form of a bashed-in windshield.

  Lavender had mentioned something called a “rage issue” to him once. He wondered if he had it, and if he should keep it or get rid of it. Seemed to come in handy in his line of work.

  Suddenly Sam grabbed at Gracie again to keep her from falling backward. Gracie had fainted.

  “Oh, no,” Sam said, as he cradled her in his arms. “No, no, no—”

  Gracie was out—her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Sam laid her down and placed his “pillow” of clothes under her feet to bring blood back to her head. He put some water from his stash of bottles on one of his T-shirts and applied it to her face.

  She really was very beautiful, he thought, as he drew the damp cloth across her cheek.

  So serene. So quiet. So peaceful.

  “What the—” Gracie said, as her eyes flickered open. “You tried to kill me!” she said as she wriggled away from his embrace. “I’m sorry,” Sam said. He heard somewhere a long time ago that it was best for a man to just say “Sorry” to a woman during moments like this. And repeat, ad infinitum. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?!” Gracie said. Now she was standing, on legs which were rebelling against the very thought—they trembled beneath her. C’mon, you guys, Gracie said to her legs, give me a break—

  “I’m sorry,” Sam repeated. He was hoping the trick would work soon. “Let me help you—”

  He put his hand out to take hers—she slapped it away—and then her knees mutinied—and he caught her for the second time that night.

  “I’m sorry,” he said once more. Sam doubted sincerely that he would ever get married again. He didn’t know how long he could keep this up.

  “Okay, okay,” Gracie said. She took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said.

  “God, shut up,” Gracie said.

  Sam smiled.

  “What are you doing with that … thing … that switchblade—I mean, Jesus Christ, you could kill someone with that—” The thought of the missing masturbator was not far from her mind.

  “I use it to cut fruit,” he said as he snapped the blade back into place. Gracie watched him as he put it back under his sleeping bag. She looked dubious at best.

  “Nice place you got here,” Gracie said, finally taking her eyes off the switchblade.

  “It’s a little drafty, but you can’t beat the rent,” he said.

  “So,” Gracie said, her hands pulling the nightgown around her in a sudden gesture of modesty. Sam wondered if she could be any cuter.

  “Aren’t you going to show me around?” she asked.

  Sam looked at her. Was she mocking him? Why would she mock a homeless man? Was there anyone so cruel? And then he remembered something his father had told him—he remembered everything his father had told him because he hadn’t spoken more than three sentences to him as a child—“Sam,” he’d said, after a shouting match with his mother, “remember, women are the meaner sex.”

  Gracie looked back at him, her arms crossed across her chest, her chin thrust up, sweetly defiant. Sam thought he would have liked a picture of her then, in that moment, looking as dignified as she possibly could while wearing a soaking-wet nightgown.

  “I’d like a tour,” she said.

  Sam held out his hand. She accepted it.

  He turned and took one step forward, toward the underbrush. “This is the living room,” he said, extending his arm out.

  “I like what you’ve done with it,” Gracie said. “Was this always here?” She tugged at a branch.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’ve got a great eye.” He put his finger to his lips in a move feigning thoughtfulness. “I wanted to keep the integrity of the original architecture,” he further explained.

  Gracie nodded somberly. “Wise choice.”

  “And this is the library,” he said, pointing to his small stack of books, several of which, he reminded himself, had to be returned to the Malibu Library that very weekend.

  He hated when people didn’t return books on time. His list of pet peeves regarding the behavior of his fellow human beings was perhaps longer than other people’s. He had been inspired once, by an especially egregious maneuver on the part of one such human being, to actually sit down and make a list of specific things that bothered him most about other people.

  The list included: littering, talking loudly on cell phones, obnoxious children, obnoxious parents (he often saw both at the park at the Cross Creek Shopping Center), parking over the line, SUVs, Hummers, Hummer drivers, bad drivers, short drivers in huge cars, people with loud radios on the beach, people who smoked on the beach, people who screamed at their kids on the beach, people who drank on the beach, people who peed on the beach (there were more than a few of those, and not including the four-year-olds), men who wore thongs, women who wore thongs who should know better, crowds, any seat in the movie theater except the back row, bad movies, and finally, that surly kid at the Starbucks who poured his coffee only two-thirds full when it’s supposed to be three-quarters full (according to the pretty, apple-shaped manager). Which may exp
lain why he spent his nights sleeping in the bushes.

  “Lovely,” Gracie said, picking up a book. Sam snapped to the present too late to distract her— “Danielle Steel?” she asked, her eyebrow cocked, forming a virtual question mark.

  Sam grabbed it back. “I find her entertaining,” he said. He felt like a college student who left Penthouse magazine out on his coffee table, rather than Portnoy’s Complaint, or whatever the hell college students were reading these days to impress their girlfriends.

  Gracie put her hands up. “Whatever you say,” she said. “I’m here to snoop, not judge.”

  Sam cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, as you can see, I sleep—” He looked at the sleeping bag. Suddenly he didn’t find this ruse they were participating in amusing anymore. He was a grown man who had chosen to sleep outside for the last twenty years. He hadn’t slept on a mattress in twenty years. Five sleeping bags. He’d gone through five—and that’s because three had been stolen. He was a grown man whose sole possessions were worth less than—were worthless, period. He was a grown man who was able to take regular showers and use a proper toilet only because of an old lady’s kindness. Sometimes, to be honest, Sam still crapped in the woods—much like the proverbial bear.

  Shame was a powerful emotion, Sam was forced to admit. He was bewildered by the almost physical grip he felt, the tightening around his chest, the way his breath became labored and heavy.

  Oh, fuck, he thought, I don’t want to cry. I can’t cry in front of her.

  “You okay?” Gracie said. She put a hand on his arm. He knew she only meant to comfort him, but her light touch felt like a slap.

  He pulled away, wiping his hand across his nose. He wished he’d taken a shower that day. He covered his head with his hands.

  Gracie took a step back. “You’re right,” she said. “It isn’t funny.”

  Sam just shook his head. Over and over, like a small child unwilling to accept a parent’s reprimand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, repeating himself, for the last time.

  Gracie backed away and found the trail in the moonlight. Close by, she heard an ambulance wail. She hoped Jaden would not be awakened.

  27

  WORST-CASE SCENARIO

  THE WAILING MATCHED the tumult inside Sam’s chest. He listened as the ambulance started up, and expected, as always, that the sound would build for a moment, and then, gradually, become more distant, locating that car that had, invariably, wrapped itself around a pole on Pacific Coast Highway.

  Instead, the sound became louder. Sam’s heart began pounding. Where would it end? he wondered. It felt as though they were chasing him.

  He worried about Mrs. Kennicot. She had a nurse staying with her at night now. A tiny Filipino lady with a big sense of humor and more than a few missing teeth.

  He stood.

  The ambulance was rounding the corner into the Colony.

  Sam was up over the fence before the ambulance made its next turn.

  Taillights. He saw taillights. It wasn’t Mrs. Kennicot. Not tonight. He scrolled quickly down the list of potential victims as he ran up the Colony street—there were several people in their sixties or seventies—all of whom were in great shape. Still playing tennis, walking the Colony, taking the occasional jog down the beach. There was the semiretired business manager in his seventies who still rode his Harley on PCH at least twice a week.

  He ran.

  The ambulance had stopped at the north end of the Colony and the paramedics had already hit the pavement. Sam recognized the big black Range Rover parked at an angle halfway out of the garage.

  The security truck still had its lights on.

  Sam broke through the crowd that had begun to gather, in their pajamas, their robes, slippers, their carefully coiffed hair askew. They were attracted by the lights, the sounds, just as he was. It was the second time they’d heard an ambulance in the Colony within a month.

  This kind of thing didn’t happen here.

  Sam didn’t recognize Lavender at first, but he knew it would be her. She was on the ground, lying faceup. Her eyes were closed. She was not wearing the ubiquitous glasses. There was no smile.

  The paramedics had begun working on her.

  “I’m her friend,” Sam said, “I’m her friend—” He bent down next to her, next to Tariq, who was kneeling, holding his large gold cross in his hand, rocking back and forth—

  They ignored him, continuing their work. Heartbeat. Blood pressure. Concussion. Signs of internal bleeding.

  “Let’s get her up—” one paramedic said to the other. They were both young. Professional. Serious, like he had been. They hoisted her, carefully, gently, onto a gurney. One of the paramedics looked at Sam as he closed the back door to the ambulance. “We’ll have to airlift her out—” he said.

  Sam nodded. He knew what the young man was saying; these injuries were potentially serious. Life-threatening. Tariq stood next to him, crying now, great tears tumbling slowly down his face. The crowd parted silently and the ambulance roared away, leaping over the speed bumps.

  “She’s gonna need her glasses,” Tariq said. “When she wakes up—how’s she gonna see? How’s she gonna read?”

  Sam realized her glasses had been thrown from her face on impact.

  “I’ll find ’em,” he said. “You just, don’t worry.” He put his hand on Tariq’s quaking shoulder.

  A sheriff’s car appeared where the ambulance had been. Sam kept his head down. He was looking at the Range Rover parked in the driveway. The car had hit her, it occurred to him—the car had hit her and kept going. The boy had parked the car after he’d hit a human being.

  Something someone said to him once, in the jungle, reverberated through his brain. Death is too good for some mother-fuckers, the man had said.

  Sam was suddenly aware of the conversations murmured by departing residents. Words like “accident,” “drinking,” “kids” wafted over to his ears as he searched the road for Lavender’s glasses. He finally found them, in the decoratively arrayed olive bushes. He picked them up gingerly and lifted them to the night sky. He could see the moon clearly through the lenses. Not even a scratch.They were in perfect condition.

  He walked off, quickly, away from the sheriff, who was heading into the house where the boy lived. He would drop the glasses off with Tariq.

  And then he would take care of business.

  WORD WAS, not even an hour after the accident the kid had already gotten himself one of those world-class attorneys—the kind that rich people hire when they know they’re guilty—shit, when the whole world knows they’re guilty, but when they’re planning on getting off, anyway, fuck the rest of you.

  After the sheriff cleared out, Sam was hanging out at the guard shack, picking up bits and pieces of information. J.D. laid out the story for him: Lavender had been on nights, to accommodate her full load of morning classes. She was out in the truck, making the rounds. Nothing of note. Then Tariq had noticed, a little after four o’clock, that Range Rover come in, speeding through the gate as usual—from what he could tell, two, maybe three kids in the car. The usual suspect driving—the one with the black hair, sunglasses on, even at the blackest hour, skinny like a junkie. Laughing at the way people jumped when they saw him coming. J.D. couldn’t tell, since the only TV he watched was the kind that told him what to invest in, but he heard the kid was dating some kind of TV actress. He’d also heard the kid had been in trouble through the years—rehab, brushes with the law. Nothing major.

  Nothing like attempted murder.

  “It was an accident,” J.D. said to Sam. Sam had a place in his heart for J.D.—the Zen master of security. J.D. had been a Marine. They shared their stories. “The sheriff took down all the information.”

  “Then why did the kid get a lawyer?” Sam asked.

  J.D. just looked at him. “I’m retiring in a year. That’s all the information I’ve got for you. You want to ask me that question in twelve months plus twenty-four hours, I might
have a different answer.”

  “She’s going to miss her graduation,” Sam said. He couldn’t meet the man’s eyes. Every time he thought of that graduation—the day she’d worked so hard for—

  “Son, she’s lucky she’s alive,” J.D. said. He waved in a convertible Mercedes.

  Sam was turning to leave, having been properly reprimanded, when J.D. called out to him.

  “Cops got a bone to pick with you?” he asked. His tone was casual. Sam could tell he was concerned.

  He looked at J.D.

  “They came around here this morning. I told them nothing,” he continued. “But a danger foreseen is half avoided.”

  SAM KNEW BETTER than to write the plan down. This kind of thing, you relegated to the recesses of your brain. You think. You dream. You prepare. You leave no evidence. No pieces of paper, no half-legible scrawls. No leading conversations (although he’d already had one or two with J.D., the only man on the planet who would never finger him). This would be easy for him. A piece of cake.

  Sam was, in a way, happy to have the distraction. He was released from his obsession with Gracie, his obsession with possessing her—that womanly body, that throaty laugh. He was released from his obsession with sex. He was now only interested in one thing: revenge.

  His plan was simple. He knew from experience that the best ones are—the more complicated the plan, the more likely failure would ensue.

  In his mind, all was in order:

  He would kidnap the boy.

  He would force a confession out of him; he would tape it.

  He would confront the boy’s father with the confession.

  He would extract enough money out of them to last Lavender a lifetime.

  It was a simple plan. But not simple enough.

  For one thing, he didn’t have a tape recorder. Sometimes being possessionless had its downside. He developed a different plan:

  Find the boy.

  Beat the living shit out of him.