On Monday, Ceil had come home from teaching fifth grade at the local suburban Long Island elementary school. She entered their two-story, center-hall colonial, turned the TV on, and poured herself a stiff vodka. A thin, mousy, brittle-looking woman whose hair was a few shades too blonde to be anyone’s natural color. She watched a soap for an hour, during which she smoked three cigarettes and downed another vodka. Then she started slicing and dicing for dinner. Around five-thirty, Gus Castleman came in from a hard day of accounting at Borland Industries. A big guy, easily six-four, two-fifty; crew-cut red hair, round face, and narrow blue eyes. A bulging gut rode side-saddle on his belt buckle. He peeled off his suit coat and grunted hello to Ceil as he went straight to the fridge. He pulled out two Bud Lights and sat down before Eyewitness News. When dinner was ready he came to the kitchen table and they ate watching the TV. After dinner there was more TV. Gus fell asleep around ten. Ceil woke him up after the 11:00 news and they both went to bed.
Tuesday was the same.
On Wednesday, Ceil came home and had her vodkas in front of Santa Barbara but didn’t slice and dice. Instead she changed into a dress and drove off. When Gus didn’t show up, Jack assumed she was meeting him for dinner. Almost eleven o’clock now and they weren’t back yet. Jack hung on and waited.
Waiting. That was always the lousy part. But Jack made a point of being sure about anyone before he did a fix. After all, people lied. Jack lied to most people every day. Schaffer could be lying about Gus, might want him laid up for something that had nothing to do with his sister. Or Ceil might be lying to her brother, might be telling him it was Gus who gave her those bruises when all along it was some guy she’d been seeing on the side. Jack needed to be sure Gus was the bad guy before he made a move on him.
So far Gus was just boring. That didn’t rate hospital-level injuries.
At the sound of a car in the driveway, Jack slipped out of the lawn chair and eased into the foundation shrubbery around the garage. The car parked on the driveway. He recognized Gus’s voice as they got out of the car.
“. . . just wish you hadn’t said that, Ceil. It made me feel real bad in front of Dave and Nancy.”
“But no one took it the way you did,” Ceil said.
Jack thought he detected a slight quaver in her voice. Too many vodkas? Or fear?
“Don’t be so sure about that. I think they’re just too good-mannered to show it, but I saw the shock in Nancy’s eyes. Didn’t you see the way she looked at me when you said that?”
“No. I didn’t see anything of the sort. You’re imagining things again.”
“Oh, am I?”
“Y . . . yes. And besides, I’ve already apologized a dozen times since we left. What more do you want from me?”
Jack heard the front storm door open.
“What I want, Ceil, is that it not keep happening like it does. Is that too much to ask?”
Ceil’s reply was cut off as the door closed behind them. Jack returned to the rear of the house where he could get a view of most of the first floor. Their voices leaked out through an open casement window over the kitchen sink as Gus strode into the kitchen.
“. . . don’t know why you keep doing this to me, Ceil.
I try to be good, try to keep calm, but you keep testing me, pushing me to the limit again and again.”
Ceil’s voice came from the hall, overtly anxious now.
“But I told you, Gus. You’re the only one who took it that way.”
Jack watched Gus pull an insulated pot-holder mitten over his left hand, then wrap a dish towel around his right.
“Fine, Ceil. If that’s what you want to believe, I guess you’ll go on believing it. But unfortunately, that won’t change what happened tonight.”
Ceil came into the kitchen.
“But Gus—”
Her voice choked off as he turned toward her and she saw his hands.
“Why’d you do it, Ceil?”
“Oh, Gus, no! Please! I didn’t mean it!”
She turned to run but he caught her upper arm and pulled her toward him.
“You should have kept your mouth shut, Ceil. I try so hard and then you go and get me mad.”
He saw Gus take Ceil’s wrist in his mittened hand and twist her arm behind her back, twist it up hard and high. She cried out in pain.
“Gus, please don’t!”
Jack didn’t want to see this, but he had to watch. Had to be sure. Gus pressed her flat chest up against the side of the refrigerator. Her face was toward Jack. There was fear there, terror, dread, but overriding it all was a sort of dull acceptance of the inevitable that reached into Jack’s center and twisted.
Gus began ramming his padded fist into Ceil’s back, right below the bottom ribs, left side and right, pummeling her kidneys. Her eyes squeezed shut and she grunted in pain with each impact.
“I hate you for making me do this,” Gus said.
Sure you do, you son of a bitch.
Jack gripped the window sill and closed his eyes. He heard Ceil’s repeated grunts and moans and felt her pain. He’d been kidney punched before. He knew her agony. But this had to end soon. Gus would vent his rage and it would all be over. For the next few days Ceil would have stabbing back pains every time she took a deep breath or coughed, and would urinate bright red blood, but there’d be hardly a mark on her, thanks to the mitten and the towel-wrapped fist.
It had to end soon.
But it didn’t. Jack looked again and saw that Ceil’s knees had gone rubbery but Gus was supporting her with the arm lock, still methodically pummeling her.
Jack growled under his breath. All he’d wanted was to witness enough to confirm Schaffer’s story. That done, he’d deal with dear sweet Gus outside the home. Maybe in a dark parking lot while Schaffer made sure he had an air-tight alibi. He hadn’t counted on a scene like this, but he’d known it was a possibility. The smart thing to do in this case would be to walk away, but he’d been pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to do that. So he’d come prepared.
Jack hurried across the back patio and grabbed his duffel bag. As he moved around to the far side of the house, he pulled out a nylon stocking and a pair of rubber surgical gloves; he slipped the first over his head and the second over his fingers. Then he removed a .45 automatic, a pair of wire cutters, and a heavy-duty screwdriver. He stuck the pistol in his belt, then used the cutters on the telephone lead, and the screwdriver to pop the latch on one of the living room windows.
As soon as he was in the darkened room, he looked around for something to break. The first thing to catch his eye was the set of brass fire irons by the brick hearth. He kicked the stand over. The clang and clatter echoed through the house.
Gus’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
“What the hell was that?”
When Gus arrived and flipped on the lights, Jack was waiting by the window. He almost smiled at the shock on Gus’s face.
“Take it easy, man,” Jack said. He knew his face couldn’t show much anxiety through the stocking mask so he put it all in his voice. “This is all a mistake.”
“Who the hell are you? And what’re you doing in my house?”
“Listen, man. I didn’t think anybody was home. Let’s just forget this ever happened.”
Gus bent and snatched the poker from the spilled fire irons. He pointed it at Jack’s duffel.
“What’s in there? What’d you take?”
“Nothing, man. I just got here. And I’m outta here.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God!” Ceil’s voice, muffled. She stood at the edge of the living room, both hands over her mouth.
“Call the police, Ceil. But tell them not to hurry. I want to teach this punk a lesson before they get here.”
As Ceil limped back toward the kitchen, Gus shook off the mitten and the towel and raised the poker in a two-handed grip. His eyes glittered with anticipation. His tight, hard grin told it all. Pounding on his wife had got him up, but he could go only so far with her.
Now he had a prowler at his mercy. He could beat the living shit out of this guy with impunity. In fact, he’d be a hero for doing it. His gaze settled on Jack’s head like Babe Ruth eyeing a high-outside pitch.
Talking to a psychiatrist was going to turn this guy into a loving husband. Sure.
He took two quick steps toward Jack and swung. No subtlety, not even a feint. Jack ducked and let it whistle over his head. He could have put a wicked chop into Gus’s exposed flank then, but he wasn’t ready yet. Gus swung the poker back the other way, lower this time.
Jack jumped pack and resisted planting a foot in the big man’s reddening face. Gus’s third swing was vertical, from ceiling to floor. Jack was long gone when it arrived.
Gus’s teeth were bared now; his breath hissed through them. His eyes were mad with rage and frustration. Jack decided to goose that rage a little. He grinned.
“You swing like a girl, man.”
With a guttural scream, Gus charged, wielding the poker like a scythe. Jack ducked the first swing, then grabbed the poker and rammed his forearm into Gus’s face with a satisfying crunch. Gus staggered back, eyes squeezed shut in agony, holding his nose. Blood began to leak between his fingers.
Never failed. No matter how big you were, a broken nose stopped you cold.
Ceil hobbled back to the threshold. Her voice skirted the edge of hysteria.
“The phone’s dead!”
“Don’t worry, lady,” Jack said. “I didn’t come here to hurt nobody. And I won’t hurt you. But this guy—he’s a different story. He tried to kill me.”
As Jack dropped the poker and stepped toward him, Gus’s eyes bulged with terror. He put out a bloody hand to fend him off. Jack grabbed the wrist and twisted. Gus wailed as he was turned and forced into an arm lock. Jack shoved him against the wall and began a bare-knuckled work-out against his kidneys, wondering if the big man’s brain would make a connection between what he’d been dishing out in the kitchen and what he was receiving in the living room. Jack didn’t hold back. He put plenty of body behind the punches, and Gus shouted in pain with each one.
How’s it feel, tough guy? Like it?
Jack pounded him until he felt some of his own anger dissipate. He was about to let him go and move into the next stage of his plan when he caught a hint of motion behind him. As he turned his head he had a glimpse of Ceil. She had the poker, and she was swinging it toward his head. He started to duck but too late. The room exploded into bright lights, then went dark gray.
An instant of blackness and then Jack found himself on the floor, pain exploding in his gut. He focused above him and saw Gus readying another kick at his midsection. He rolled away toward the corner. Something heavy thunked on the carpet as he moved.
“Christ, he’s got a gun!” Gus shouted.
Jack had risen to a crouch by then. He searched for the fallen .45 but Gus was ahead of him, snatching it from the floor before Jack could reach it. Gus stepped back, worked the slide to chamber a round, and pointed the pistol at Jack’s face.
“Stay right where you are, you bastard! Don’t you move a muscle!”
Jack sat back on the floor in the corner and stared up at the big man.
“All right!” Gus said with a bloody grin. “All right!”
“I got him for you, didn’t I, Gus?” Ceil said, still holding the poker. She was bent forward in pain. That swing had cost her. “I got him off you. I saved you, didn’t I?”
“Shut up, Ceil.”
“But he was hurting you. I made him stop. I—”
“I said shut up!”
Her lower lip trembled. “I . . . I thought you’d be glad.”
“Why should I be glad? If you hadn’t got me so mad tonight I might’ve noticed he was here when we came in. Then he wouldn’t have took me by surprise.” He pointed to his swelling nose. “This is your fault, Ceil.”
Ceil’s shoulders slumped; she stared dully at the floor.
Jack didn’t know what to make of Ceil. He’d interrupted a brutal beating at the hands of her husband, yet she’d come to her husband’s aid. And valiantly, at that. The gutsy little scrapper who’d wielded that poker seemed miles away from the cowed, beaten creature standing in the middle of the room.
I don’t get it.
Which was why he had a policy of refusing home repairs. Except this time.
“I’ll go over to the Ferrises’,” she said.
“What for?”
“To call the police.”
“Hold on a minute.”
“Why?”
Jack glanced at Gus and saw how his eyes were flicking back and forth between Ceil and him.
“Because I’m thinking, that’s why!”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I can smell the wood burning.”
“Hey!” Gus stepped toward Jack and raised the pistol as if to club him. “Another word out of you and—”
“You don’t really want to get that close to me, do you?” Jack said softly.
Gus stepped back.
“Gus, I’ve got to call the police!” Ceil said as she replaced the poker by the fireplace, far out of Jack’s reach.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Gus said. “Get over here.”
Ceil meekly moved to his side.
“Not here!” he said, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her toward Jack. “Over there!”
She cried with the pain in her back as she stumbled forward.
“Gus! What are you doing?”
Jack decided to play the game. He grabbed Ceil and turned her around. She struggled but he held her between Gus and himself.
Gus laughed. “You’d better think of something else, fella. That skinny little broad won’t protect you from a forty-five.”
“Gus!”
“Shut up! God, I’m sick of your voice! I’m sick of your face, I’m sick of—God, I’m sick of everything about you!” Under his hands, Jack could feel Ceil jerk with the impact of the words as if they were blows from a fist. A fist probably would have hurt less.
“But—but Gus, I thought you loved me.
He sneered. “Are you kidding? I hate you, Ceil! It drives me up a wall just to be in the same room with you! Why the hell do you think I beat the shit out of you every chance I get? It’s all I can do to keep myself from killing you!”
“But all those times you said—”
“Lies, Ceil. Nothing but lies. And you’re such a pathetic wimp you fell for them every time.”
“But why?” She was sobbing now. “Why?”
“Why not dump you and find a real woman? One who’s got tits and can have kids? The answer should be pretty clear: your brother. He got me into Borland ‘cause he’s one of their biggest customers. And if you and me go kaput, he’ll see that I’m out of there before the ink’s dry on our divorce papers. I’ve put too many years into that job to blow it because of a sack of shit like you.”
Ceil almost seemed to shrivel under Jack’s hands. He glared at Gus.
“Big man.”
“Yeah. I’m the big man. I’ve got the gun. And I want to thank you for it, fella, whoever you are. Because it’s going to solve all my problems.”
“What? My gun?”
“Yep. I’ve got a shitload of insurance on my dear wife here. I bought loads of term on her years ago and kept praying she’d have an accident. I was never so stupid as to try and set her up for something fatal—I know what happened to that Marshall guy in Jersey—but I figured, what the hell, with all the road fatalities around here, the odds of collecting on old Ceil were better than Lotto.”
“Oh, Gus,” she sobbed. An utterly miserable sound.
Her head had sunk until her chin touched her chest. She would have fan-folded to the floor if Jack hadn’t been holding her up. He knew this was killing her, but he wanted her to hear it. Maybe it was the alarm she needed to wake her up.
Gus mimicked her. “ ‘Oh, Gus!’ Do you have any idea how many rainy nights you got my hopes up when were late coming home from your
card group? How I prayed—actually prayed—that you’d skidded off the road and wrapped your car around a utility pole, or that a big semi had run a light and plowed you under? Do you have any idea? But no. You’d come bouncing in as carefree as you please, and I’d be so disappointed I’d almost cry. That was when I really wanted to wring your scrawny neck!”
“That’s about enough, don’t you think?” Jack said.
Gus sighed. “Yeah. I guess it is. But at least all those premiums weren’t wasted. Tonight I collect.”
Ceil’s head lifted.
“What?”
“That’s right. An armed robber broke in. During the struggle, I managed to get the gun away from him but he pulled you between us as I fired. You took the first bullet—right in the heart.
In a berserk rage, I emptied the rest of the clip into his head. Such a tragedy.” He raised the pistol and sighted it on Ceil’s chest. “Good-bye, my dear sweet wife.”
The metallic click of the hammer was barely audible over Ceil’s wail of terror.
Her voice cut off as both she and Gus stared at the pistol.
“That could have been a dud,” Jack said. “Man, I hate when that happens.” He pointed to the top of the pistol. “Pull that slide back to chamber a fresh round.”
Gus stared at him a second, then worked the slide. An unspent round popped out.
“There you go,” Jack said. “Now, give it another shot, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
He pointed the muzzle at Ceil again, and Jack detected a definite tremor in the barrel now. Gus pulled the trigger but this time there was no scream from Ceil. She only flinched at the sound of the hammer falling on another dud.
“Aw, man!” Jack said, drawing out the word into a whine. “You think you’re buying good ammo and someone rips you off! You can’t trust anybody these days!”
Gus quickly worked the slide and pulled the trigger again. Jack allowed two more misfires, then he stepped around Ceil and approached Gus.
Frantically Gus worked the slide and pulled the trigger again, aiming for Jack’s face. Another impotent click. He began backing away when he saw Jack’s smile.
A Soft Barren Aftershock Page 82
