Fiddleback 2

by Jeff Vrolyks

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The three Stoddard’s and Eddie were eating at the table, the rack of lamb every bit as good as Timothy had said it would be. Twice Eddie’s cellphone rang at the table; he didn’t answer it or even see who it was. On the third attempt he figured it must be important. And being that Michael was killing Trent hopefully this very second, he’d better take the call. He excused himself, said he had to take this, walked out the front door and closed it behind him. It was Michael calling, as he suspected. He was a little nervous; he prayed for good news. He answered before it went to voicemail, and paced away from the house to ensure privacy.

  “What’s up, man?” Eddie said in good spirits. “You got good news for me?”

  “I’m trying to keep my calm, that’s what’s up,” Michael said.

  “Did you get him? Trent?”

  “No I didn’t. Trent wasn’t there. Would you care to guess who was there?”

  Eddie didn’t like his tone one bit. He was pissed off. Michael wasn’t the type who got pissed off. He had a hard time imagining how he’d look right now.

  “Trent lives alone there,” Eddie asserted. “Nobody should have been there but him, buddy.”

  “Yes, that’s what you said. But that wasn’t the fucking case, buddy,” Michael said sarcastically.

  “Whoa, what’s the matter? Who was there and why are you pissy with me?”

  “Because I almost killed the very last person on earth I’d want dead! Mae Clark! You fucking son of a bitch, I could have killed Mae!” Seething fucking mad, he was shouting into his phone. “You said Trent would be there, never mentioned that Trent’s girlfriend is Mae Clark, even after I fucking told you I loved Mae! Why didn’t you say anything! Your fucking little jade doll tells you things, huh? Well it sure as shit didn’t tell you that Mae was going to be at Trent’s when I came in to stab the motherfucker in the heart, did it?”

  “Michael,” Eddie said flatly. “Calm down for a second.”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you! I’m wondering if it wasn’t your intention for me to kill Mae all along! I swear to God, Eddie, had I killed her, I would be on my way to torture you to death right fucking now!”

  “May I speak yet?” Eddie said, calmer than ever. “Are you done?”

  “Yes. Tell me no lies or may God have mercy on you, because I sure won’t.”

  “Mae lives at her uncle Matthew’s. He recently told both Mae and Trent that she wasn’t allowed to stay at his place any more. I’m shocked she was there. If you don’t believe me, call Matthew Albrect, I’ll give you his number, ask him for yourself. I promise you he’ll be livid when he hears that Mae is at Trent’s. That wasn’t suppose to happen. I swear to you, I wanted nothing else but for you to kill Trent. Not Mae. Jesus, Michael, Mae is the reason why I want you to kill Trent! So get off my nuts about it! She’s the fucking reason I’m in California, the reason why I’m working this shit job in a shit town getting paid jack shit! I’m here to have you kill Trent so he’ll stop feeding Mae the fucking lithium pills!” Eddie’s rage was causing him to speak a little too loudly. He hoped the Stoddard’s didn’t hear any of it. Christ, that would be bad. “I didn’t tell you that Mae was Trent’s girlfriend because I worried that you’d let emotion interfere with the job. That’s all.”

  “Just why is that you care so much about Mae?” Michael asked with bald suspicion. “Why have you gone through all of what you just said to cut Trent out of her life?”

  “I can’t say. There’s a reason, that’s all you need to know.”

  “Well shit, Eddie.” Michael exhaled loudly into the mouthpiece of the phone. “I just don’t know. I’m pretty pissed off right now.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that much.”

  “I ain’t killing Trent. If you want him dead, it’s on your hands now. Your mistake cost you that.”

  “Whatever. If you’re too much of a pussy to do it, I’ll do it myself. Give me my fucking car back.”

  “There’s something you might like to know,” Michael said baitedly.

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Mae knows you sent me here to kill Trent. How much you want to bet she told Trent already? How do you think Trent will take that? We both know he’s capable of murder, as Mae’s parents could attest to if they weren’t so fucking… what’s the word I’m looking for… oh, dead! Sleep well tonight knowing that.” He hung up.

  Eddie cursed, stuffed the phone in his pocket. What a fucking mess. “Great.” That lunatic bastard knows where he lives. He glanced over at the barn and damn if he didn’t see the slightly-open door nudge closed before his eyes!

  “No fucking way,” he breathed.

  The door was cracked open, and now it was closed. He couldn’t be sure it had been open, being so dark out, and how dark inside the barn was, but he was fairly sure. Better than fifty-fifty. If someone was in there, who else would it be other than Trent? It was him. If someone was in there.

  He plodded back to the Stoddard’s feeling like shit, let himself in.

  He retook his seat at the dinner table and probed around his plate a little. Phyllis was telling Timothy a story about the time she met Martin Luther King Jr. It was only a handshake and a greeting, but it was one of the most memorable moments of her life, and she had told the story dozens of times to Timothy.

  Phillip reached mid-table for the platter of rolls, put one on his plate and offered them to Eddie, who refused absentmindedly.

  “Eddie,” Timothy said with an excited glimmer in his eye. “Did you know grandma met Martin Luther King Jr?”

  “No I didn’t. Very cool. Look, sorry to be a downer, but my stomach is hurting a little. If you don’t mind I think I’m going to call it a night, go home.”

  “Aww, sweetie,” Phyllis said, “are you going to be all right? I might have some Pepto in the medicine chest. Would you like me to get you some?”

  “I appreciate it, but I’ll be okay.”

  Phillip asked if he could wrap up Eddie’s dinner to take with him. Eddie refused.

  “Is it hot in here?” Phillip asked nobody in particular. “Boy’s sweating.” He was referring to Eddie, who was indeed sweating.

  “Not really, no,” Timothy said with a worried expression. “Eddie you look ill. It’s just your stomach?”

  “Yeah. Would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure,” Timothy said. “Anything.”

  “Would you come with me back to the barn? I’d feel better if you did.”

  “Of course. May I be excused Grandma and Grandpa?”

  They excused him.

  “I’ll be back in a little bit to do the dishes,” Timothy said.

  “Don’t worry about it, son,” Phyllis said. “I’ll do them. You go and take care of your friend. You’re a kindhearted boy, I love that about you.”

  “The best grandson we could have hoped to have,” Phillip said with a sincere grin. To his wife he said, “To think we could have picked any number of boys that day, and the one we ended up with was the golden ticket.”

  They had watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory earlier that day. It was their son Charles’ favorite movie growing up. They’d take him to see it in the theater several times whenever it showed.

  Phyllis began singing in her aged scratchy voice: “Cause I’ve got a golden ticket, I’ve got a golden twinkle in my eye…”

  It made Timothy teary eyed. Not the song but their sentiments. “I love you guys.”

  They both said they loved him too at the same time. Phyllis hoped Eddie would feel better soon. Phillip said if he needed some time off work, all he had to do was ask.

  “Thanks again,” Eddie said. “Goodnight, guys.”

  Eddie left the table, opened the door and gestured Timothy to go on ahead of him. He closed the door behind himself and together they ambled toward the shadowy barn a hundred yards away.

  The thought Eddie mulled over on the walk toward confrontation with Trent was Why didn’t I bring that fuckin
g idol with me to dinner? Like he could have known this would happen. Bad judgment. He knew Trent had learned his address, that should have been all the reason he needed. He guessed that deep down he thought Michael would be slitting Trent’s throat this very minute. That fucking useless serial killer. With the idol he’d know if Trent was on the other side of the barn door. If he was on the other side, he’d deal with Trent. If he wasn’t, things would work themselves out with a little planning and help from his friend. The friend behind his eyes, as he once said. His friend who hadn’t a name, insisted that Eddie name him what he’d like. The name Eddie chose was Jackson. Jackson because that was the name of the best friend he ever had: a black Labrador retriever. Jackson died of a tumor in his stomach when Eddie was eight years old, just a month after his father had been crushed to death by an incorrectly felled sequoia. What a rotten time that was in his life. Eight years of age is rather young to remember a pet, but my God how he loved Jackson. He’d never forget him. So Eddie named the friend behind his eyes Jackson. The reason for it was a little odd to admit, even to himself. Attaching a name that represented something so kind and gentle and loving toward Eddie would make this new friend in his life just those things. Idiotic, yes, but that’s why he named him that. It was idiotic because the man doesn’t become the name; the name becomes the man. And sure enough when he thinks of the name Jackson he remembers the jade idol and the entity channeled through it, not his old dog.

  When Eddie had said he’d like to call him Jackson, the voice didn’t question him, wasn’t curious who Jackson was. It already knew. And the damned thing was, the friend behind his eyes laughed over it, and openly wondered why everyone wanted to name him after a damn dog. Apparently someone else had named him after a dog. Maybe several had. That was when Eddie learned that he wasn’t the first person to come across and befriend Jackson. Jackson had once spoken of a girl whom he described as, “Special beyond the boundaries of special. A true and marvelous enigma.” He loved her unequivocally. Eddie knew nothing else of her, including if she was even human—he assumed Jackson was inhuman: he was awfully vague (more like secretive) about who he is and where he came from.

  They were halfway to the barn. Timothy slowed his pace to match Eddie’s, who trudged along as if he had leaden feet, and progressively slowed with each step.

  “Are you going to throw up?” Timothy asked him.

  Eddie gestured him to shut up with a finger over his lips. Timothy furrowed his brow at him. Eddie didn’t elaborate, but signaled him not to stop.

  They had arrived at the barn. Eddie was genuinely feeling nauseated. It was bullshit what he was about to do to his friend, but better Timothy than himself. Eddie nodded at his friend to go on in. Timothy entered without reserve.

  The door creaked open. Timothy took his first step inside when from behind the door a man wielding a blunt weapon clubbed Timothy over the head. It made a sickly sound that Timothy never heard. He hit the ground like a sack of bricks. He was dead, in a coma, or if he was lucky just knocked out.

  Eddie capitalized on the moment and lunged at Trent, who was in a compromising posture having just swung the tire-iron. The two collided in a tangle on the dusty wooden floor, rolled around muscling one another, gritting and baring their teeth as they grappled and jabbed, bit, spit, and head-butted. Trent yanked free his right hand, poked Eddie in the left eye with a finger and didn’t let up, pushed his eye farther and farther back in its socket. Eddie yelped, used his free hand to seize the fucking finger and bent it back just short of breaking it. Trent kneed Eddie in the stomach, stealing both his wind and the grip on his wrenched-back finger. Trent grabbed either side of Eddie’s head and head-butt him in the nose, busting it wide open with a sickly crunch. Warm blood spurted onto Trent’s forehead, running down his face in a thick sheet. He bit Eddie’s cheek all the way through, spat out a piece of flesh. Eddie yowled.

  The momentum was Trent’s. He took advantage of his injured quarry by rolling on top of him, straddled him, threw his first blind punch at his head. He thought he may have knocked Eddie the hell out, wished it wasn’t pitch black so he could confirm that. The second punch proved otherwise, because the son of a bitch ducked his head out of the way, driving his fist into the unyielding floor with a splintering crack. He cried out in pain. If he survived this night he’d be wearing a cast on his right hand.

  It was Eddie’s turn to take advantage of the momentum change. He pressed a thumb into the soft-spot of Trent’s lower throat with all his might, collapsing his wind-pipe. Reflexively Trent backed off of him to escape the agonizing pain. Eddie brought his legs around and under himself, pounced at Trent, driving him squarely on his back. Trent rolled over to his stomach with cat-like agility and hammer-kicked a foot up into Eddie’s ass. Eddie reached back with lightning-fast reflexes of his own and snagged hold of the hammering foot, secured his grip with a second hand and wrenched it clockwise against the resistance that was his bone and tendons. With a surge of summoned strength Eddie cracked the mother fucker, broke his ankle in multiple places. Trent screamed in agony.

  On the brink of victory Eddie grinned, blood covering his upturned lips, a blood goatee, blood-soaked shirt. He rolled Trent over to his back, took a fistful of Trent’s shirt and pulled his torso off the floor, drew a fist back and pummeled his nose, splitting it wide open.

  “Break my fucking nose,” Eddie growled, his tone flattened from his mangled nose. “Broke yours right back, mother fucker.”

  Eddie threw another punch, a whopper of a blow connecting with Trent’s chin, and felt the mandible dislocate, or with a little luck, break.

  “Like that? Huh?” Eddie said with a maniacal bloody grin.

  Eddie put his hands around Trent’s neck and throttled him, hell-bent on forcing that prick into the afterlife. Trent made gurgling sounds, sputtering incomprehensible words. Suddenly a hand gripped his genitals and squeezed. Eddie released the asshole’s neck and clawed at the hand on his crotch. It was too late, something in his scrotum gave way, and never in his life had he felt pain remotely so savagely cruel. It shut him down like a flipped switch. He tipped over to his side and dry-heaved.

  Eddie lay there trying to draw in a much needed breath, kind of hoping he’d die to escape this blinding, incomparable pain.

  Trent wasn’t attacking him. He was in a world of hurt himself. For minutes the two lain on the barn floor in utter darkness, panting and moaning and sobbing, saying not a word.

  There was a chime coming from one of the stalls, then another. The LCD screen of a phone glowed bright.

  A shadow darker than the night around him filled the open barn door. There was an audible click: both Trent and Eddie knew that ominous sound well: the cocking back of a gun’s hammer.