Good Deeds: A Thriller

by Aaron Polson

  With a tight bandage on the weak ankle, Wayne moved into the bedroom. He lowered himself to the floor and reached under the bed, groping for a shoebox. He pulled it out and lifted it to the bed. Stacia hadn’t wanted him to get the gun. She’d said if they ever had kids… Jesus. Wayne flipped open the box and lifted a revolver, a snub nose .38, unloaded.

  He sat on the bed, holding the pistol in his hands. It was much heavier than it looked. He only sat for a moment, but the muscles in his legs and arms, especial the sprained ankle and wrist, stiffened like premature rigor mortis. He could easily fall back onto the bed and fall asleep. It was tempting.

  Asleep wouldn’t help Stacia.

  Wayne raised the gun, pointing at the wall. He should call the cops. He should call the cops and explain, give them directions out to Dan’s place.

  What would he tell them?

  They trespassed?

  They followed a guy to his farmhouse, broke into the barn and then entered the house, smashing a basement window in the hurry to run away?

  No. Fucking. Way. Lawrence was a pretty progressive town, but profiling wasn’t unheard of. What was a black dude supposed to do? He didn’t have much of a choice at all, not then, not at—he glanced to the alarm clock on his bed stand—three in the morning.

  His eyes fell on the gun. He wasn’t even sure Stacia was there. He’d take her car, fix the flat on the Camry, and then… What? He scooted along the edge of the bed. He stopped, grabbed the phone—the old land line Stacia complained about (Why did they keep it, anyway?)—and dialed 9-1.

  He stopped.

  Stacia’s phone. He’d call her phone maybe she made it to safety. Maybe she was able to run and find a nice house where she could hide out, maybe get a ride back into town. Back here, to their house.

  But if she had, where was she?

  He dialed quickly, jabbing the little plastic numbers on the phone. Her ring buzzed in his ear once… twice… three, four, five times. Nothing. He slammed the receiver on the cradle and lurched to his feet. After Stacia’s attempt and stint in the hospital, he’d hidden the cartridges—he’d kept them separate from the gun for safety’s sake. He gritted his teeth, marching to the hallway, past the bathroom, and into the spare bedroom they used as a combination study and storage area. Cardboard boxes littered one wall, half of them full of blankets, toys, and baby clothes—stuff he hadn’t had the heart or will to clear out after the last miscarriage. Maybe preparation was bad luck, after all.

  He shoved a stack of boxes to one side, carving a path to the closet. The light came on with a pop as he pulled the cord. Pushing one more box aside—an orange and white Nike shoe box—he found the small black and white box of cartridges.

  Cartridges. The clerk at Gary’s Outdoors had insisted they weren’t bullets. Cartridge implied the whole thing—load and bullet—in one little metal package. Wayne rattled the box and listened to the little metal shells tumble against cardboard.

  If Stacia could get home, she would be home.

  She was still out there.

  Wayne snapped open the cylinder of his .38 and pushed six cartridges into place. Then he dumped the rest of the box in his pocket. Grabbing Stacia’s keys from the hook in their kitchen, he moved toward the door leading to the garage. He glanced at the phone again—and a tiny red “1” flashed on the message indicator.

  “What the—”

  Wayne punched the play button.

  “She’ll be waiting.”

  A muscle in Wayne’s cheek twitched. His stomach turned to stone. He didn’t recognize the voice… He pushed the play button again and listened, holding his breath, expecting something after the short message, expecting some sound, some hint. He turned on the spot and stared into the shadowy kitchen and living room, half-expecting an intruder to stumble and give himself away. He held his breath until he felt like his lungs might ignite.

  Nothing.

  He hadn’t noticed the message earlier—but he hadn’t looked, had he? No. No, he hadn’t. He hadn’t thought about it. His gaze fell back to the little red “1”. The stone which was Wayne’s stomach turned over. He grabbed the machine and flung it from the counter before staggering into the dark garage to find Stacia’s car.

  - 3 -

  Wayne cruised past the spot where they’d left the Camry, where the Camry should have been. He’d slowed well before the hill and the curve, expecting the car. Nothing. He guided Stacia’s Honda Civic over the Stull Creek Bridge, wheeled around, and headed south.

  Someone had changed the Camry’s tire and taken the car.

  Stacia?

  Maybe. She could have found help at a farmhouse like he’d told her. She could have found someone who helped change the tire and then started for home. The Civic slowed to a stop on the opposite shoulder. Wayne clicked off the headlights and pushed the shifter into park.

  She could have done those things, but the note on his counter told a different story.

  She’ll be waiting.

  Down the slight incline, across the night-darkened field—the same field which he’d run across with Stacia—there was a farmhouse. He narrowed his eyes, squinting into the deep night, trying to find the outline of the building which housed a locked basement room and, if Stacia was to be trusted, a chair with bloody ropes—the hint of foul play and maybe a body once tied to a chair. His hand moved to the passenger seat. His fingers played with the .38’s cold metal barrel.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered.

  The ache in his ankle had lessened since the Advil. He hardly noticed anything in his left wrist. His head, however, still reminded him of Stacia’s battering with each movement. But Stacia hadn’t hit him that hard, had she? She couldn’t have—he hadn’t been bleeding before they left the house. Wayne closed his eyes, trying to find a way through his foggy memory.

  Moments later, he staggered down the incline and started across the field. It was as if someone else controlled his body, someone who wasn’t afraid of what he’d find. Someone who didn’t hurt with each step. Someone who thought he might actually use the pistol when the time came. Wayne wasn’t an action hero.

  The icy chill came when he stood less than one hundred yards from the house.

  The house was dark.

  He was alone.

  His palm was sweaty, and the sweat acted like glue, holding the grip of the pistol against his skin. The small criss-cross pattern dug into his hand. His knuckles grew tight. He’d only fired the pistol twice, both times at a shooting range below the recreation center downtown, and hadn’t fired it for a least a year. Maybe two.

  She’ll be waiting.

  He’d followed Stacia across the field, into the barn, and through the house because he loved her. That was it. Other thoughts snaked into his skull, thoughts of the long nights and bills, struggles with her recovery from depression. Was it love? Was it duty? Was that all? He felt duty to Stacia, like she was some sort of burden. He shook his head.

  The house loomed, dark and solid like a mound of granite.

  Wayne was the ant, ready to be crushed.

  He moved closer to the line of bushes behind which he’d originally found Stacia. The wind stirred leaves. His gaze roamed over the yard and past the drive separating the barn and house. It rested on the barn. Nothing stirred. There was no light save that of the moon and stars, still brilliant far away from the pollution from the city.

  He was a fool for coming. Stacia wasn’t here.

  She’ll be waiting.

  A horde of invisible ants crept across his back. They trailed over his neck. He shivered.

  He couldn’t deny the note.

  Someone had been in the house, someone who knew about Stacia. The Camry was gone, too. How could he explain that? He bent low and followed the line of bushes to the drive’s edge. He ran for the barn, unsure why. Who was in the house to see him? It was dark and silent as a tomb. Wayne fell against the barn’s rough planks, panting.

  Just check the barn. Just check the barn and then go, he t
hought.

  The side door was open as they’d left it. Wayne stepped inside, heart beating, hands shaking, gun too heavy in his grip. Shadows hung in heavy curtains over the barn’s interior, but his eyes adjusted quickly.

  The Caprice was gone.

  The barn was empty.

  Dan would be gone then. Dan and Stacia, gone. He was a fool for coming, but yet something gnawed at him. Something wasn’t right. Wayne moved to the window facing the house. Still dark. Still dead.

  Maybe…

  He conjured impossible images, visions of Stacia dead and tied to a chair by Dan—the hitch-hiker Dan, not Wayne’s benefactor. Stacia couldn’t be dead.

  She’ll be waiting.

  The dead don’t wait. She must be alive.

  Wayne left the barn, coming around the front side again, gun still in front of him. He wasn’t sure he could shoot it. He wasn’t sure he could pull the trigger even if he had to. He held his breath at the corner of the barn and strode across the drive. If someone was waiting in the house, he wouldn’t be able to hide from them. If not, he had no one to hide from. His feet made an irregular, grinding thud on the gravel drive. His ankle caused little pain, but it wasn’t working well. Not well at all.

  The back door was open—not simply unlocked, but open. Wayne stepped inside and glanced around the kitchen. The house was quiet and the air heavy and thick enough he felt the pressure against his lungs. He hurried but with light steps, still cradling fear like a child. He was a boy again, trying not to wake one of his mother’s many boyfriends.

  The basement.

  If Stacia was anywhere, she’d be in the basement.

  He knew it as fact, pure and honest and incontrovertible, but he moved through the hallway and up the stairs first. She’d told him about the chair, the rope, and the blood, but he had to see it. He had to believe the utter cluster-fuck of an evening was real. He’d made the first mistake when he pulled over for Dan; he didn’t want to think about his most recent.

  The stairs groaned, wood rubbing on wood, as any house of its age would. He climbed slowly, one foot and then the other, never quite putting the full weight on his weak left ankle by leaning against the wall. His right hand held the gun. He pointed it straight ahead.

  There were three bedrooms on the third floor—three floors and one bathroom. The stairs opened to a central landing, and each room branched from there. He checked to his left and worked in a clockwork pattern. The first two rooms were mostly empty—the first with peeling wallpaper and a stack of old boxes in one corner. Plaster had chipped from the lath from one wall the second room, and a small, dusty pile rested near the baseboard. Full of rusty water, no one had used the toilet in a long time.

  The third bedroom contained a single chair but no body.

  No body. Just as Stacia said.

  Wayne moved across the floor and pulled aside the curtains, allowing a little moonlight through the tall window. He touched the chair’s arm, running his hand over the smooth wood. Moonlight glinted on three dark spots. Three dark, damp spots.

  Blood.

  There were more blotches, a larger one a foot or so from the chair. He hadn’t noticed them when he entered the room, but his eyes had adjusted and the moonlight was just enough. Just enough…

  The trail of blood led through the door, and he lost it in the hallway. It was just too dark.

  She’ll be waiting.

  Wayne thundered down the stairs, forgetting his fear, and hurried to the basement stairs. He hesitated at the door, staring into the darkness below. Stacia had to be down there—if she was anywhere in the house. The pain had fled his ankle, replaced with a cocktail of adrenaline and ibuprofen. His wrist was stiff, but manageable. Even the pain in his head had lessened.

  She had to be in the basement. He’d grab her, and they’d go. Maybe the wacko—Dan, the hulking shape at whom he’d flung the ax—was gone with the Caprice. He’d get Stacia and go. There was only one place she could be, one place in the basement.

  Behind the white door.

  Wayne waited for a moment at the base of the stairs, holding his breath. Listening.

  Nothing.

  If she was in the house…

  He covered the distance from stairs to door in three, loping strides. His eyes darted left and found the broken window, still broken from their escape into the night field. He touched the doorknob, remembering it was locked. Maybe, this time…

  The knob turned and clicked. The door swung open.

  The smell hit Wayne like a blow to the gut, a thick, cloying stench, warm and heavy with blood and urine and rot. He leaned against the door frame, his stomach churning. It was a smell of death, both old and new. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes. Moonlight crept through two small windows at the top of the wall opposite. A black shape formed in the middle of the room. A body.

  Jesus.

  It was a body hanging from the ceiling. He couldn’t see much else and groped for a light switch. His hand found nothing but cold, rough stone.

  But a bulb in the center of the ceiling popped alive, anyway.

  A moment passed, lightning bolt quick, in which he made out a face, a pale, female face on the body dangling from the ceiling, and then a sharp jolt rattled his skull. Wayne’s bladder released. His legs went to jelly. The world winked out in a swath of black.

  - 4 -

  Hanging.

  He was hanging with both hands extended above his head. His arms ached. Numbness and cold claimed his fingers. A cocoon of pain wrapped him starting with his skull and trailing down his neck, back, and into his legs.

  There was a voice.

  “You were late.”

  Wayne opened his mouth. His lips were numb. He tried to speak, but his tongue was stuck, dry and thick, like a wad of cloth.

  “You were late.”

  Wayne’s eyes flickered open. The voice came from a man. Darkness hung on the room, but he could make out the form at least. At least he could make out the form… Definitely a man.

  “You were late.”

  “Late…” Wayne surprised himself with his voice.

  “You were late to help your wife with the spare tire. She had to go. She left before you got back.”

  Panic hit Wayne in the chest. “She had to—”

  “She took the car. Your car.”

  “Stacia?”

  “Is that her name?” The voice’s owner shifted position, moving away from the shadows. He was pale. Wayne’s eyes traced the hint of a mustache on his lower lip.

  Dan.

  “Where is she?”

  “She was nice. I thought she’d be missed—nice people often are. It’s harder to make them disappear if they’d be missed. It’s so hard these days. So hard.” Dan tilted his head to one side. “Have you heard of H.H. Holmes?”

  “Who?”

  “He was a doctor. Chicago World’s Fair, 1893. He owned a building and took in many women. Historians think he might have killed as many as two hundred. Can you imagine? Two hundred. It was easier back then.” Dan’s voice rose when he spoke Holmes; he lingered on the words “two hundred.”

  Wayne squirmed. There was a squeak, the whine of metal against metal. Dan wheeled a cart from the shadows. A white cloth covered the top shelf. Several bright metallic instruments lay on the cloth—dental picks, scalpels… Wayne’s gaze trailed beyond the cart. His gas can sat in the corner, a faint hint of gasoline floated in the air.

  “I started with a girl from campus. A loner. She was easy. The others, not so much. I’ve been worried I’d get caught. It’s so much harder these days. When my wife found out—”

  “Your wife…”

  “She was stubborn, kind of like you.” Dan moved to the wall and stooped. When he stood, he held the gas can. “Remember this? I needed some gas?”

  Wayne nodded. “Where’s Stacia?”

  “My wife wasn’t happy when she found out. When she found out about my hobby.” Dan’s free hand touched the top of the cart. He ran a finger over a silve
r-bladed instrument. “She left me. Said she was going to call the police.”

  “Where’s Stacia?” Wayne felt the fear in his own words.

  “We didn’t have a phone. She—my wife—didn’t like it here. She tried to get away.”

  Wayne grunted, struggling against the binding around his wrists.

  “I found her. I was going to bring her back, but I ran out of gas.” Dan lifted the can. “She was too heavy to carry. I couldn’t leave her on the road. Not like that.”

  “You sick fuck—”

  “We came home, thanks to your wife. Thanks for the ride.” Dan set the can on the floor. “She’s a really good person, your wife. Really good. But you didn’t want to help, did you?”

  “Stacia… She knows. She’ll call the police.”

  “Too bad. I liked this house.” Dan picked up a scalpel.

  “Your car’s gone.”

  Dan nodded. “I left it up the road a ways. I won’t take long, and then the fire will wash the house clean. I’ll still have plenty to make it to another station, don’t worry. I won’t need another ride tonight.”

  Wayne squirmed.

  Dan pressed the silver blade next to Wayne’s skin. “She’s a good woman, your wife.” Dan put a finger against his lips. “Shhhh… She doesn’t know what I have down here. I couldn’t let your go if she did. But you—yes. You know. You know and I’m going to have to keep you.” Dan smiled. “You don’t really believe in that nonsense about good deeds, do you?”

  “Jesus don’t…”

  “Yes. It’s much better when they suffer. It feels right.” Dan pushed the knife into Wayne’s flesh. Blood oozed out. Wayne howled. “Your wife was a nice lady, but you.... You didn’t want to help, did you? This is going to hurt. We don’t have long, but I can still make it hurt.”