by Joslyn Chase
“Things’ll work out, Liz. Really, they will.”
When Liz got to Rodney’s, he was on the X-Box with Luke. She wished Luke would leave, but he didn’t catch the drift. She spoke Felicia’s name and felt the tears spring up again behind her eyelids.
“They don’t know what’s happened to her. The police think she might have been abducted or even murdered.”
The boys shut off the machine and stood mute, paralyzed by feminine tears.
Rodney seemed to realize she needed his arms around her.
“That’s terrible, Liz. I’m so sorry.” He held her, stroking her hair. “I hope she’s okay.”
Luke looked uncomfortable. “I gotta go,” he said.
~~~~
Luke drove fast until he saw the cop.
Get a grip, man. Be cool.
Then there were more police. One officer directed traffic to keep it moving and several more were cordoning off a section of woods with yellow tape. Luke felt cold and wooden, a million years old. Hands on the wheel, foot on the pedal. Just… get… home. What a fool he’d been to think it would all just go away if he pretended it never happened.
He couldn’t feel his feet, didn’t remember walking, but somehow he was in the den and his dad was there. Between gulps and sobs, Luke told everything. He’d never meant to hurt her, they were just having fun. They were both high and fooling around. He was on top and she laughed when he squeezed her. He laughed too, a wild rush, a pulsing flurry like riding the wind. At some point, he realized she wasn’t laughing anymore, would never laugh again.
His dad sat hunched over the desk, unmoving. Inside Luke’s head a chant repeated, fix it, fix it, fix it. In the den, silence stretched.
“Do you think Mom can help me? She knows people. She could represent me or find someone who could. It was an accident, dad.”
No response.
“Dad, I need help.”
“What did you do with her, son? Where’s the body?”
Luke swallowed around a huge lump in his throat, croaking out the words. “I kind of buried her under some leaves and branches and put rocks on top. I tried to dig… but I didn’t have a shovel.”
His father winced. “Where is this place?”
“We’ve got a secret spot, a hideout, but I think the police found it. When I drove by they were taping off the woods.”
Another long silence. Then dad got up and dropped a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “You’ll be okay. Stay put and don’t talk to anyone. I’m going out.”
~~~~
Neil moved quickly. Yes, Luke would be okay. There would be a trial and talk and scandal, but Emily and her cronies would get him clear of it, a young girl’s death tagged as a youthful indiscretion. A few scare tactics and community service, then he’d be off to college with barely a scar to show for it.
Neil had seen these types of legal horror stories happen time and again, had raged about them, in fact, but now he saw the system’s failures working to his son’s advantage. Neil, on the other hand, was in trouble. He couldn’t afford to be connected with it. He wasn’t, in fact, connected with it, except that the old woman had seen him sneaking away from the scene of the crime. Few would believe the coincidence behind that. Knowledge of his involvement with the “hideout” would certainly cast suspicion on him and could foul up the credibility of Luke’s account, as well. If the finger ever swung around to point at Neil, he’d be screwed. There was enough DNA evidence on the scene to put him in a troublesome spot. That could not happen. He’d encourage Luke to deal straight with the authorities, and the son’s confession would keep the father out of it.
There was, however, one dangerous loose end.
Neil didn’t stop to think. He knew what he had to do, and he knew he had to move fast before the police canvassed the neighborhood. Later, he would be amazed at how clearly his brain operated, how logically it steered him through a series of steps. Dark clothing, soft-soled disposable shoes, two codeine tablets left over from his root canal last March, combined with ground beef to make a meatball tranquilizer.
It was dark, now, and he kept clear of the street lamps. Which of these houses had she turned into? The one with the barking dog, of course. Neil crouched outside the doggie door and rolled the terrier a treat. When the barking subsided, the dog curled into a sleeping ball, Neil broke a pane of glass and let himself into the kitchen.
~~~~
Upstairs, in the master suite, Mabel was running a bath. She didn’t hear Voltaire’s warning. She didn’t hear the tinkle of breaking glass. She slid beneath the steamy water, turned on the jets, and opened the suspense novel she’d been reading. The book was a fascinating journey through the twisted, dark places of the criminal mind. Mabel had often wondered what might lead a man to murder.
Neil mounted the staircase, entered the bathroom, and answered the question.
NOTES
I once read a Jeffrey Archer story that ran in a circular fashion such as this one, and I thought it would be fun to try it myself. As I perused the possibilities, I thought:
“What could possibly happen, during the course of 24 hours, to turn an ordinary man into a cold-blooded murderer?”
He’d have to wonder, early in the day, what could bring such a thing to pass and then, by midnight, perform the act himself. A chilling and frightening notion, as it suggests this could happen to anyone. Anyone with soft enough moral character to allow it to happen, I console myself. A bit like the belief that a hypnotist can’t plant a post-hypnotic suggestion that the subject wouldn’t perform while in their conscious mind. It comes down to how suggestion and motivation meet up with moral character.
I was also intrigued by the title I came up with: What Leads A Man To Murder. It’s almost like a riddle. Put one way, it asks a question. Put another way, it provides the answer. Try it and see what I mean.
I pondered this story idea as I took a walk through our rural, forested, golf-course neighborhood. I imagined what I might think if a man-—dressed in a suit, tie, and slick-soled shoes—-came slinking out of the trees. I’d wonder what he was up to. My imagination would go wild.
And so it did. You’ve just read the result.
Adalet
____________
She bears a scar that mars her breast.
And her soul.
Entangled in a game of lies, Adalet stakes
every last bit of herself on winning.
But the odds are not in her favor.
The first time he took me to bed, Paul found the scar. He traced it with a finger that felt like a white-hot knife, searing my flesh from collarbone to the space between my breasts. A rush of blood coursed through my eardrums, filling my mouth with the taste of tin and when I closed my eyes, the pictures inside my eyelids bloomed like blood-red fireworks. Short, panting breaths tore from the cage in my chest and I bit my lip against an escaping whimper which Paul mistook for passion. His lips came down over the scar, traveling the length of it, and beyond.
After, as we lay on the cooling sheets, Paul asked how I got it. I told him I’d been in a three-car accident caused by a couple of deer on a mountain pass. I told him the hook where you hang your dry-cleaning caught me as I pitched up and forward, thrown by the force of impact, and how I’d broken all the fingers of my left hand which had never quite healed right. I told him these things as I studied the plaster-point constellations on his ceiling, a dull stone in the pit of my stomach pinning me to the mattress. I told him these things, and I lied.
~~~~
Nine days after our honeymoon, we attended a fundraiser picnic for the children’s wing at the hospital. Clusters of blue and white balloons festooned the walk, bobbing in the wake of racing youngsters. A jazz band tooted under cover of the gazebo, sending nostalgic tunes floating above our heads. Paul wore his good-guy face and I was careful to smile and chat, playing my role.
I’m a good liar, but it brings me no pleasure. After my maneuvers over the past thirteen months, I should be as jaded a
s a Chinese relic, but the sour twist in my stomach still knocks me low and each step I take is a tiptoe across a thin, volcanic crust, a tenuous perch with a roiling mass just beneath.
I am not the only pretender in this relationship. I understand Paul was stretching the truth when he told me how his college football performance came ‘this close’ to making him a draft pick for The Broncos. And, like most husbands, he’s adept at skirting the truth when commenting on my cooking, my wardrobe, or girls he’s known in the past. I consider these tactics a normal part of married life, though I admit our relationship is far short of normal.
There are moments, with Paul, when prickles rise and creep along my spine. When he talks about how he spent his childhood in Nebraska. When I look past his hollow smile and see the ice behind his eyes. When he claims his father, now deceased, left him a small trust fund.
We’re engaged in battle, he and I. May the best liar win. And, now, here’s the truth: I’ve staked every last shred of myself on winning this thing.
The sun sliced down through a network of clouds, stippling the picnic tables and playing shadows over the faces milling about the hospital grounds. After the speeches and the cake-cutting, I made it a point to seek out Paul’s administrative supervisor. I found her surveying the flowerbeds and placed myself so that our paths would intersect.
“Adalet, so good to see you. Nice tan you brought back from Crete. Was it wonderful?
“Fabulous! I’ve always dreamed of visiting the site of the labyrinth, to match wits with the Minotaur, wind out my own ball of string and explore.”
Gloria’s penciled eyebrows rose half an inch up her middle-aged forehead. She bent her head and began pinching dead leaves off the rosebushes. I needed her to confirm something for me, and wondered how to work around to it.
“I know it’s just a myth,” I continued, “but we visited the Labyrinthos Caves at Gortyn and the Heraklion Museum. The island is breathtaking and full of mystery. I loved it! Thanks so much for making it all possible.”
Her hands fell away from the flowers and she looked at me with astonished eyes. “What did I do?”
“Paul told me about the bonus you gave him.”
Two pink spots bloomed on Gloria’s cheeks, bright as the roses beside her. She looked across the manicured lawn, shading her eyes with a sunburned hand. All the confirmation I needed.
“You must have misunderstood him.”
“Oh?” I said. “Perhaps I did.”
I dismissed the subject with a wave of my hand and glanced at the bronzed nameplate set into the stone rim of the bed. It identified the flowers as “Adam’s Smile.” His last, I wondered, before being booted out of the Garden of Eden?
~~~~
We didn’t speak during the drive home, and when we arrived, I stood at the living room window, waiting while Paul put away the croquet set. Through the sheer white panel, the grass looked very green, every blade and leaf tucked and tidy, the flagstones gleaming to the sky. I felt Paul behind me.
“I spoke with Gloria today,” I told him. “I thanked her for the lovely bonus.”
His reflection was cloudy in the window glass, but I knew his brows had pulled towards the sides of his nose, forming a V, and the blood had risen in his face. I saw it without turning.
“She told me I was mistaken, Paul. It was embarrassing.”
I felt his hand rising to my shoulder and I stepped away, turning now to face him. “Let’s get on the same page. Why can’t you just be honest about where you got the money?”
He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Why are you poking into this? I try to do something nice for us and you’re dissecting every little thing. It kind of takes the romance out of it, don’t you think, dear?” Paul’s tone held a nasty edge and I struggled to find the right way to respond, deciding on a mix of exasperation and concern.
“It feels like you don’t really care what I think, like you’re hiding something and it worries me.”
“Well, stop worrying. Why does it matter where I got the money? Maybe I took it out of the trust fund.”
“Did you, Paul?”
His gaze flicked away, and then back, and his eyes locked on mine with a rock-hard glint, a slight twitch working at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I did.”
“Really.” I said it flat as paper. Flat as the license declaring us Mr. and Mrs. Paul Spencer. And paper covers rock. I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a tearful whisper.
“It matters, Paul, because I’m your wife. We’re in this together now and your choices affect my life. So, I’m asking again…please. Where did you get the money?”
“I already told you. Are you calling me a liar?”
“I think you’re lying, yes.”
The blow came fast, tearing into my stomach. The breath shrieked out of me, leaving me airless, gawping like a fish, lungs as useless as a couple of popped paper bags. Paul grabbed a handful of my hair, jerking my head sideways and pulling me up from my stupefied crouch. Tears dribbled into my hairline, stinging the tender roots where Paul was ripping at my scalp.
“I don’t like being called a liar,” he snarled.
He flung me down and I landed awkwardly against the coffee table, knocking one of his glossy photography books off the edge. He retrieved the book and carefully repositioned it before stalking out of the room. I relaxed against the floor, wiping tears from my eyes and coaxing breath into my battered lungs. I was learning more about my husband every day, and I noticed he hadn’t denied being a liar. His rage stemmed from having it pointed out.
~~~~
I watched from the attic window as Paul’s Jeep Grand Cherokee paused at the stop sign and turned left onto Mallow Drive. I’d retreated and slept here after last night’s confrontation, wrapped in a blanket and a layer of pain. A twittering of birds fell light as a handful of feathers over the fragile silence of the morning, and downstairs, the aroma of coffee followed me as I padded into the pantry and retrieved the cell phone I keep hidden inside a plastic bag at the bottom of the rice bin. I dialed the number and didn’t bother with hello.
“His defensive hackles are up and quivering. He hit me, Rona. I admit I provoked him a little, but I hate to think what he’d do if I really tipped my hand.”
“Girl, know that I’m sending you this from a place of love, but have you lost your mind? I cannot believe you married the man. You sure as shrink wrap stuck your head in the lion’s mouth.”
“Ah, but at least it’s not buried in the sand. Read the history books, my friend. Women have been marrying their hated enemies for centuries. Remember that sage little piece of advice: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not cynical about it.” A brief silence. “You really doubled down on this one, Adalet. I’m worried you’re taking it too far.”
“I couldn’t walk away from it, not when I’m this close. I’m all in, Rona, and the money’s starting to show. As his loving and devoted wife, I have a pretty good crack at figuring out where it’s coming from. He’s got to open up, or make a slip. But, Rona…he’s dangerous. I saw the whole story in his eyes. Right now, he thinks he loves me, but he’s going to kill me someday.”
“Where is he now?”
“He went hiking, like any other Sunday. Hasn’t said a word since he gut punched me.”
“Girl, you are in over your head. Grab your bags and get out of there.”
“I hear you. I spent all night mentally packing my suitcase, but Rona, I just can’t. You know I can’t. I can’t let go of my grief. I can’t fall in love. I can’t get a real job or build a life. It’s an achievement just to sleep through the night. Until I resolve this, it’s like I’m suspended in a thick, sticky substance that burns like hell.”
“Well, child, you know I’ll always stand by you…with a fire extinguisher.”
~~~~
Paul came home that night with a huge bunch of flowers. He set them on the dining room table and enveloped me
from behind as I stood at the kitchen sink, washing up. He nuzzled my neck and I tensed, watching the hairs on my forearms rise up as if magnetized. I found myself unable to swallow and fought the impulse to gag. I practiced some slow breathing while I pushed my mind into another place, shifting mental gears so that I could interact with Paul while leaving the butcher knife in its wooden block on the counter. He murmured apologies, nibbling my earlobe, then turning me for a full-on kiss. I switched off inside and let him lead me to bed, where I lay numb, staring at the ceiling again as we mended our fences, each willing, for our own reasons, to overlook last night’s incident.
He sprawled across his king-size domain with his hand draped over my stomach, seemingly unaware that he was caressing the very spot he’d pummeled the night before. “It’s time we had a bun in the oven. Don’t you agree?”
The buzz of a fly, bouncing between the curtain and the transparent barrier to freedom, assaulted my eardrums, as loud and irksome as a jackhammer. I felt the edges of my composure peeling up like a dry, brittle leaf. I smiled, tried to make it tender. “Paul, we’ve been married for all of ten days. We need some time to ourselves before we think about starting a family.”
He stroked my cheek. “What’s to think about? You’ll make a great mother and nurturer. I’ll make a great father and provider. And on that subject…I’ve been talking to a realtor. We’ve got some house hunting to do.”
“Woah, hold up. You’re moving way too fast for me. Can’t we just let things happen? Do we always have to be pushing everything along?”
“Yes, Adalet,” he said bristling. In patronizing tones, like a college professor addressing a roomful of freshmen, he laid out his philosophy. “You always have to push things along if you want to have any control in the matter. Letting things happen is for the lazy and the stupid. And we,” he gave my belly an emphatic pat, “are neither.”
I lay there, drenched in self-loathing. Bad enough I stooped to sleeping with the man; bearing his child was out of the question. Well then, time to push things along.
