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There is a shame that, while not exclusively known to alcoholics, is known best to that sort: that of drinking all night, missing work the next morning and drinking again that day to remedy the guilt. Tom was not an alcoholic, whatever other problems he may have had, but he was not above drinking in the afternoon. He waited until noon and called room service and got plastered on the house wine. The next morning, Sunday, he was sufficiently hungover and knew that hair of the dog would fix him up right, even though he gagged at the prospect. Had he kept up with the newspapers that were piled outside his hotel room door, or bothered to turn on the news at all, he would have realized going down to the hotel bar was a grave mistake, he would have known that his face was displayed for all to see on every newspaper and that every newscaster was saying his name and showing a picture of his home. Worse yet, they were playing sound bites of his voice. Had he known this, he would have not only skipped the hotel bar, but may have even skipped town.
He dressed as well as he was able and made his way down to the lobby, sweating and being careful not to pass the seminar doors and hoping he would not run into anyone from the meetings, especially the phony fucking author himself.
In the hotel lounge he had a beer and glanced up at the television mounted above the bar. The newscaster was looking grimly into the camera, “Breaking news,” He said, “Shocking video confession of a brutal killer in our city.”
Tom recognized his own face on the television. He glanced around the bar quickly to see if anyone else had noticed. He shrugged his shoulders a little and hid behind a bottle. He heard his tinny voice from the TV, but could not place the context. He stole glances at the screen. There was his picture, staring into the camera; where the hell did that come from? The caption beneath his photo read: Shocking taped confession made to officials just weeks before the murder!
Tom’s television voice said, “I’m going to kill my girlfriend! Upstairs. That’s where they hang them.”
Tom remembered saying those things, but what had he meant at the time? Who had he been talking to? It was out of context. And again, his voice came squeaking out of the small television speakers, laughing this time: “I am not kidding you, I am going to kill my girlfriend.”
Officials? It was the bloody Power and Gas Company. “Belraj!” Tom said out loud. The bartender looked over in his direction and Tom looked away. The newscast flipped back to the anchorperson. “Excuse me?” Tom ventured. The bartender smiled tightly. “Could I have the remote?”
The bartender slid him the remote and Tom pointed it at the television. Small green bars were filling up the bottom of the screen. The newscaster boomed: “We talked to Officer Coxcomb earlier this afternoon.” Tom saw the officer on the screen, looking straight out at him and yelling: “We can’t confirm any confession, but we can say that Tom Ryder is a definite person of interest.”
“Turn it down!” from the back of the bar. The bartender came over to Tom and yanked the remote out of his hands. Soon, the volume was down, and the channel switched to a hockey game.
There was only one thought on Tom’s mind as his heartbeat drowned out the television: holy shit. It was ridiculous. Out of context. Not even true, really. He had said those words but... could the power company just give away his recorded voice? Didn’t he have to sign a release form or something? Perhaps they sold it to the news. But why? Surely they knew that it wasn’t a real confession. He could sue. Yes, he would sue, and it would be the end of all his problems. What was it called? Slander? Defamation of character.
What character? The voice was real inside his head as if someone had seated next to him and spoken out loud. What character? Turn yourself in. “For what?” he whispered. For murder. “I didn’t kill anyone,” Tom said, a bit louder. He noticed the bartender looking at him. He tried to smile but the man looked away quickly. You didn’t kill anyone? What about Joe Williams? “That was an accident,” Tom said.
“Look, man, is there a problem?” the bartender said from the end of the bar. He threw a white towel over his shoulder and looked to Tom like he was about to bring his brawny bartender/bouncer body down to him.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s been a rough week,” Tom said
A rough week of murder, the voice said. “Fuck off,” Tom shouted.
“Hey!” The bartender was suddenly in front of him. “I asked you if there was a problem here.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Tom said. “Could I get another beer?”
“I think it’s time you hit the road,” the bartender said, placing both hands on the counter and flexing massive forearms. A tattoo obscured by thick black hair read: Arms of Harm. Tom frowned. Why would someone put such a permanent stupid saying on his or her body? Same reason someone would murder someone, the voice countered.
“I didn’t kill anyone!” Tom said into the bartender’s face.
“No, you didn’t,” the bartender said. Yes, you did, said the voice. “But you are disturbing some of the other patrons.”
Disturbing them? Tom looked around. “There’s hardly anyone in here,” he said.
“Look, do you want me to call the cops or are you just going to leave like I asked?” The bartender flexed.
Oh, that would be great; the voice was now managing irony. “No, no, I’m leaving,” Tom said.
The bartender suddenly looked past Tom’s shoulder, “Oh wow. You guys are fast. I didn’t even call.”
Tom turned on his stool and tried to stand. The good-looking officer and his partner, Thorpe were there and they each put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and forced him back down into his seat. They each sat next to him at the bar.
“Can I get you gentlemen something?” The bartender looked confused. “I just asked this fellow to leave, but if he’s a friend of yours, I can set you all up.”
“It’s fine,” the good-looking officer said and waved his hand at the bartender. The man took the cue and disappeared to the end of the bar. He began drying glasses and putting them away, all the while glancing down the bar at Tom and the two police.
“Were you done here, Tom?” the good-looking officer asked Tom.
“I think so.” Tom hoped he had said it out loud.
“Then would you mind coming for a drive with us?”
“Where?”
“I think you know where,” he said. “I have something I want to show you.”
“Did you see the news, Tom?” Thorpe smiled as he guided Tom out of his seat and toward the front door.
“Yes,” Tom said. “No, I mean, I watched the weather.”
Both officers were lagging behind Tom a bit and when he turned they both put their hands on his back indicating they wanted him to walk in front. They left the bar and the officers steered him away from his own car towards the police car. They asked if he would mind sitting in the back. “It’s more comfortable,” the good-looking officer said. “rather than have three of us jammed in the front seat.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on here?” Tom said as they closed the door, realizing there were no door handles on the inside of the police car. Already he felt a prisoner. Must not panic, he told himself and then heard the other voice in his head chuckling away as though he had told a great joke.
“I appreciate your cooperation, Tom,” the good-looking officer said, “I am going to run you down to the station...”
“We,” his partner suddenly interrupted.
“What?” The good-looking officer sounded genuinely shocked.
“We appreciate your cooperation and we are going to run you down to the detachment,” his partner said. “You always do that, it’s like I’m not even here sometimes, you just say ‘I’ this and ‘I’ that.”
“Oh,” the good-looking officer said. “Wow, I didn’t realize.”
“Well, you do,” his partner said and looked out the passenger window into the darkness, his chin drooping a bit.
“Umm...” Tom ventured, “Are you putting me under arrest or something? I mean, both of you. Are both of you putting me under arrest?”
“Thank you for that,” the sulking officer sulked.
The good-looking officer cleared his throat and made his voice sound once more officious. “Nothing like that, Tom. I... we just want to take you to the detachment and have you look at some pictures, that’s all. Help me... help us out with one of our investigations.”
“Can I call someone, then?” Tom asked tentatively, feeling out his situation.
“Who would you call?” came the deadpan answer. Sure enough, something was going on. They knew. Holy shit, now what? Play stupid, the other voice told him and then mentioned that it probably wouldn’t be that hard for Tom, accented with another chuckle.
“The thing is,” Tom said, trying to reduce suspicion, “I haven’t been home all weekend. In fact, I haven’t spoken to Eddy in two days and she’s probably worried.”
“Oh, I’m sure Eddy is just hanging around,” the sulking cop said and then inexplicably burst into laughter. If it was an inside joke, it was only for him; Tom and the good-looking officer did not laugh.
“Why would you say something like that?” the good-looking officer admonished his partner. “What the hell would you say something like that for?”
“What?” his partner whined. “A joke.”
“It’s not even goddamned funny.” Suddenly the good-looking officer was shouting. Tom cringed in the back seat. “It’s not even funny. That’s terrible.”
“Just a joke,” the partner complained and then turned to Tom in the back seat. “In different circumstances, wouldn’t you think that was funny?”
“I don’t think I heard the joke,” Tom said.
“You didn’t hear the joke?” The good-looking officer was now looking at Tom in the rear-view mirror. “Or you didn’t get the joke?”
“Well, I heard what he said. Hanging around, sure. But I don’t understand why that’s a joke,” Tom answered truthfully.
“OK,” the good-looking officer answered calmly and shot a warning glance at his partner who sulked out the side window. “It’s not a joke.”
Tom rolled in the backseat with each turn. There were cages on each of the side windows and a cage separating Tom in the back from the driver and his partner in the front. There was no music radio, but there was a radio, squawking sometimes, making Tom uncomfortable in its codes. What the hell was a 10-46 or suspect is 10-45? What was he? Could it be that he was 10-46? The officers hadn’t mentioned anything into the mic yet. What did they know about him? They were suspicious of Joe’s death, that much was for certain. But they would have arrested him a long time ago. What pictures would they have? Did Belraj talk? No, he doubted that. Belraj seemed to be the type of man who would not go to the police first. Not with his mistrust of authority and government and history. The man felt the astronauts never went to the moon and the whole thing was a television studio creation. And never mind JFK. Jackie O shot him. She’s a quick woman, Belraj said. There is no way Belraj would tell what he had seen that night. Or thought he saw. Still, was it Belraj who gave the audio recordings to the police? They were edited, certainly, taken out of context. The more Tom reasoned the more he convinced himself that his actions, while not innocuous, were still ambiguous. Start asking for a lawyer right off the get go, Tom told himself. This is what lawyers get paid to do. Do not be intimidated by anything. Do not let anything slip. Answer questions with simple answers, if at all. If you call for a lawyer right away, and one actually comes, then let the lawyer do all the talking from then on. That was the way to do it.
Tom felt unease immediately upon entering the underground garage of the police detachment. The good-looking officer opened the back door and held Tom’s head so he would not smash it on the doorjamb. Their voices echoed hollowly and falsely against the concrete walls. Although Tom knew he must be guided through the doors in the direction they wanted him to go, he felt they were guiding him a bit too forcibly. Too aggressively if all they wanted was to speak with him about a few things. He should ask for a phone call right now, before things got too out of hand. Let them know he would not be pushed around. How much did they really know? Would asking for a lawyer be an admission of guilt?
They led him through a maze of cement walls and heavy doors that opened with magic and a loud buzzer when the good-looking officer looked into a mounted camera and flashed his identification. Soon Tom found himself giving personal information to a woman at a desk and was then quickly whisked into a private room with a large mirror on one wall and nothing on the other three. The good-looking officer pulled a chair out for Tom and sat opposite him, then glanced at the mirror and said: “Could you send Corporal Toole in with file 64-246?” Tom thought he heard something from behind the mirror and within a few seconds another officer joined them, placing a file folder in front of the good-looking officer
“All right, Tom,” the good-looking officer said, “Do you have anything you want to say to me?”
Tom raised his eyebrows in question. Play it cool, he thought. “I don’t think so?” he said, his voice rising.
“Absolutely sure?”
“I think so?” He questioned again and cursed himself for sounding guilty. He should be adamant. He should be angry: What are you doing calling me down here? Am I under arrest? And what for? Get me my lawyer you sons of bitches! “What’s this all about?” he croaked.
The good-looking officer glanced at the mirror again and ran a hand through his hair, frowned and ran a hand through his hair again. He smoothed his tie. Officer Toole noticed this and complimented the tie
“Thank you, Toole,” the good-looking officer said.
“Where did you get it?” the corporal asked.
“Moore’s.”
“Very nice.”
“Thank you again.” The good-looking officer motioned to the file and smoothed his tie once more. “That’s all we need for now,” he said, and the corporal nodded and left the room, stealing a glance at Tom. Thorpe folded his arms and took his place in the corner near the two-way mirror and stared at a space somewhere on Tom’s forehead. Tom noticed and was uncomfortable. They knew something. Everyone knew something.
“Tom, I want you to see something,” the good-looking officer said. “Tell me if you know anything at all about what I am about to show you.”
Tom leaned forward expectantly as the good-looking officer pulled the file closer to him and opened it. There were many typewritten pages there and some photos which the good-looking officer removed from the folder and placed in front of Tom.
When he slapped the photographs in front of him, one by one, Tom wasn’t sure at first what he was supposed to be looking at. It was his house, sure. Pictures taken from the street. There was the curtain-less bay window and the mannequins hanging. Three photos taken from different angles of the same thing. As though he were supposed to spot the difference in the pictures, the thing out of the ordinary. And then, there it was. One of the mannequins hanging from the ceiling was different. Somehow more slender than the rest. And with a head. Eddy? Eddy. Oh, my God, Eddy. O my sweetness omysweetnessnononono. Why. Why? Why Wally? Mom? Whywhywhy. Uncle falling down the stairs. Why so impressed with a winch truck would you die for it? Thoughts ran unconnected through his mind.
He looked up at the officer imploringly. Surely he could understand the coincidence. It was suicide. And a statement from a fucked-up mind. He knew immediately what they were thinking. But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t murder. Not this one.
“And this.” The officer threw down a photocopy of official looking documents. The writing was small, but Tom could make out what it was. A copy of a life insurance policy worth one hundred fifty thousand dollars.
“Suicide,” Tom croaked.
“Maybe, that’s right.” The officer leaned back in his chair and it did not creak under his weight. As if he had no substance that mattered to the world. But it mattered immensely to Tom. “But there is a clause in there about suicide. The money isn’t payable to a suicide within two years of signing this contract. And your girl died, what, three days ago? It won’t pay. Did you even read your own contract and do your job, you stupid fucker?”
Where was the good old boy from the bar? In retrospect, Tom preferred the misheard innuendos to the upfront accusations. Yet, Tom knew he was in trouble. He could not let these people sit here and accuse him of killing his girlfriend. He was in mourning, for the love of... He should be indignant. How dare you, he should scream. Instead, he croaked, “Lawyer?”
“Did your boyfriend have a lawyer?” Thorpe broke forward, enraged at the murderer before him.
“Boyfriend?” Tom asked.
“Thorpe,” the good-looking officer said sternly. The man looked back at him, puzzled. Why the sudden shift in intensity? Gently, with the right amount of rebuff, remorse, and respect, the good-looking officer said, “That’s his girlfriend.”
“I’m sorry?” Thorpe leaned forward, not in apology, but in miscomprehension. He frowned and looked closely at the pictures. “That’s a woman? But... whoa...” he stood back and at attention, looking hard at the ceiling, and swallowing hard at saliva. Only the good-looking officer hadn’t flushed.
“As I was saying,” he continued and tried to raise his voice to the previous level, “You fuck.”
“I didn’t hurt her, I wouldn’t...”
“You are in a lot of trouble, here, Tom.” The officer leaned forward. “I mean, let’s leave the murders out of it. That’s right, I said murders. I know I can get you on Joe Williams’ sooner or later.” He smiled, not unfriendly. “But you’ve got fraud of the highest order here, stealing a motor vehicle...”
“Tell him about the sexual harassment stuff!” Thorpe stepped forward and couldn’t help looking at the photograph again, to make sure.
“Thorpe, would you please.” The good-looking officer held his hand in the air, waving his partner back to the corner. Tom thought the man might stick his tongue out at him.
“What? Sexual harassment?” Tom asked.
“Against an employee at Consumer Life. Rebecca. You recognize the name?” The good-looking officer looked through his papers. “Some of these emails don’t even make sense. What the hell is the billboard of my desire?”
“Where did you get those?” Tom demanded as much as he could with his voice shaking and his bowels threatening to give way at any moment.
“Well, it is actually company property. All your correspondence on company time and equipment belongs to them, legally.” Thorpe put in and then, as though anticipating another stern warning stepped back to his corner.
“But we emailed each other. And we talked on the phone.”
“So, you are saying it was a mutual thing?”
“Yes! I mean, whatever it was, it was mutual. It certainly wasn’t...” Tom couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
“It’s strange, there doesn’t seem to be any from her... to you.” The good-looking officer looked up and into Tom’s eyes.
Tom felt himself shrink under the stare. “Are you sure?” Yet there must have been something earnest in Tom’s words and look, because he saw the officer, just for a second, shift his eyes.
“Is he sure?” Thorpe yelped from the corner, “Can you believe this guy?” He shook his head to the ceiling.
“Thorpe,” the officer barked, “send Toole in here.”
The guard lost his smirk quickly, “I’m sorry, last time. I swear.” He pulled an imaginary zipper across his lips.
“No, please, send Toole in here.”
“Honest, I got it. No more.” The Thorpe insisted.
“For fuck sake Thorpe, send Toole in here now!” Thorpe jumped only slightly higher than Tom at this change in tone. He fumbled with the door handle and closed it behind him. Tom could hear murmuring just outside the door while the officer stared at his thumbs, reminding Tom of a gleaming, menace of a robot from sci-fi movies. The robots that are rendered useless until needed, to be re-activated to kill, kill, kill. Even the officer’s hair was silver, Tom thought suddenly.
Thorpe came back in the room with Corporal Toole and the two shuffled at the door for a second, maneuvering until the Thorpe found his way out.
“Thorpe.” The glowering good-looking robot cop came to life, “You stay in here.”
“Oh, really, me?” Thorpe pointed at his own chest and looked back from Toole to the good-looking officer. “I thought... Oh, you want me to stay, too.”
Ignoring him, the officer handed the reams of transcripts to Toole. “Look through these for anything we missed. Logs of her calling him, and of any emails sent. Get a fellow to look through her PC and his again for deleted files. Get those guys that can find things that are long gone, or something like that.” He turned back to Tom. “I don’t send anything to court that isn’t air-tight my friend.” He said, with an ironic smile.
Tom was too shaken up to be paying attention. He thought he just saw, among the papers the officer handed off to Toole, a printed copy of a picture he sent via email of his own schlong. He felt like shouting after Toole, “Look for her boobs on my PC!”
The officer looked Tom directly in the eye. Tom felt like looking away but knew it would be something a guilty man would do. And he was innocent, mostly, of what they were saying he did. He stared back with all his effort and focus.
“Look, we’re alone now.” The good-looking officer said and in his peripheral Tom saw Thorpe frowning. “Is there anything you want to get off your chest? Aren’t you tired of carrying this around?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said as evenly as possible.
The good-looking officer sighed. “Did you hurt your girlfriend?”
“No.” Tom was emphatic.
“You didn’t hurt her even by accident?”
“No.”
“Did you hurt Joe Williams, even by accident?”
“No. Umm... by accident? Oh. I didn’t mean to.” Tom heard the words as though someone else was speaking them. Thorpe leaped victoriously from his corner and shouted “Aha!” into Tom’s face. This time the good-looking officer did not admonish him.
“Was that like a confession?” Tom finally asked.
The good-looking officer smiled. “Good enough for me,” he said.
There was silence in the air. “Should I get a lawyer?”
“Too late, fucker, you already confessed,” Thorpe snapped, and his eyes darted between Tom and the officer. Both men ignored him.
The good-looking officer nodded solemnly, “It would be a good idea,” he said. “I will inform you now, Tom Ryder, that I am placing you under arrest for the homicide of Joe Williams.” Tears began to well up in Tom’s eyes.
He thought of Eddy. Gone. His mind wandered down the corridors of his office. Every cubicle and office emptied out. The carpet torn up and the walls whitewashed. What little furniture there was left covered in plastic. Equally, his Uncle’s store drifted through his consciousness, the shelves bereft of goods, and the fluorescents above replaced by a long-lasting sort of bulb that seems to never need replacing. He thought of his mother. His mother. How would it look to her? And then, he felt an indefinable gratitude that his father was not alive. How would his father see his deeds? We help you look better. See?
Tom blinked. What the hell was a billboard of my desire, anyway? This awareness of something awry hit Tom quickly enough so he could not shake it off. What about the billboard? Why had he called it Rebecca’s? Oh, disillusioned drunken fool, you have staggered around out there calling her name. Worse, no messages from Rebecca to him? Is that what this man said? There were phone calls he remembered. Or did he remember them right? Sexual harassment. Could he have been wrong about her? Perhaps he had misread her intentions in some way. How could he have been so sure about her? He had actually thought of marriage, of all things. He wanted to see her in a wedding dress.
“Do you understand what I am telling you?” the officer was saying softly.
“I do,” Tom said. Or he may have just nodded.
“Ok. Is there anyone you would like to call?” the good-looking officer asked. Tom nodded, yes. “Then we’ll get some of the paperwork out of the way and arrange for you to come down to the phone room, all right? About an hour?” Tom nodded. “You think of everyone you want to call, within reason, and we’ll just put you in the holding cell. I don’t need to put handcuffs on you, do I, Tom?” the good-looking officer asked.
The cell was sort of the way Tom imagined. Cement walls, brightly chipped yellow painted steel bunks, infamous bars, of course, and a coarse steel mesh covering those. He knew that unrolling the bedroll provided would add to the permanence, so he sat on the cot and held his hair with clenched, angry fists. It was like a whirlwind. One day, driving around, the next, locked up. Maybe forever. Where would he go? How could he survive? Could he get out of this somehow? Did he know a lawyer? His mother or Uncle would know a lawyer. But, just what the hell was he going to say to either of them? He had to phone Rebecca. She would know what to do. Yet, was she real? She was adding sexual harassment to his charges. He had to get an explanation from her. It didn’t sit right with Tom. There was something wrong. They had gotten to her somehow. Sure, that made sense. In this way, she would be privy to every part of whatever they had against him. Oh, clever girl. She would be his lawyer. She would have access to absolutely every bit of evidence. Access enough to assess it for legitimacy and relevance, but also access enough for destruction if that’s what it took. Of course.
Instant relief felt like a warm shower over him and he lay on his back waiting for them to come get him. He closed his eyes. The cell sounded like the gymnasium from his old high school. Every sound echoing and seeming so far away yet right next door. He worked out what he would say to her. They would have to play stupid with each other. He would tell her in detail what happened. She would take care of everything from there. There was no need for him to call anyone else. Sweet relief. Rest now. Tom did not have to kiss the ring of his mother’s god nor bow to the prime ministers on his Uncle’s dollar bills.
He may have slept because it seemed like seconds later an officer came to collect him for his telephone calls. The officer handed Tom three business cards of lawyers. Tom declined, and the officer tucked the cards into Tom’s shirt pocket. “It’s not a good idea to do these sorts of things without a lawyer,” the officer said, and Tom nodded and smiled. “It won’t be necessary,” he answered confidently. In the phone room, the guard sat reading a magazine, having witnessed Tom as no threat to anyone, not even himself. Tom listened to the receiver ringing and ringing. Why wouldn’t she be home?
Finally: “Hello?”
“Rebecca.”
“Tom, what’s the matter?” Her voice sounded so soft he could barely hear it. Less than a whisper. “Where are you, Tommy?”
Tommy? I am now in love. Here now, at the end of my life I fall in love. All suspicion of his beloved Rebecca fell away from him quickly in a flood of relief and tenderness. “I’m in jail, baby.” The words spilled like honey from his lips. He explained the entire story to her. From the very beginning, including his ominous cab ride that suddenly sprang into his mind. Ending with Eddy and his arrest. He was vaguely aware that the guard had dropped his magazine and now sat slack jawed and occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the mirror mounted on the wall. From behind the mirror, Tom swore he heard the muffled voice of the good-looking officer, saying: “That one is even better! Did we really get all that?” There was whooping and clapping and what Tom knew from experience was an occasional high five.
“Just take it easy, baby,” Rebecca’s voice hummed through the phone. “I will be right down.”
“I don’t think they’ll let you in,” Tom said.
“They have no choice,” she said, and her voice sounded like the hum of two different droning tones lulling him to calm.
In his cell he opened his eyes slowly. One of the far off distant sounds was different than the others. The click-clack of high heel shoes walking down the corridors, pausing to look in each of the barred rooms housing other criminals. As the footsteps approached, Tom sat up on his cot. His heart beating faster and faster until he felt sweat accumulate on his back. Within seconds the source of the sound stopped at the bars of his cell. “Tom?” The familiar soft voice spoke through the darkness and seemingly through the stone walls.
“Rebecca?” he breathed, “You’re here?”
“I told you I would come,” she said, and stepped forward out of the shadows. She reached up languidly with one manicured and lovely hand; bright red nails looking wet, gently pulled off her glasses. Different chick. “Oh, Tom, what have you done?”
“I did what you told me.” He was too tired to shout. Too much in love to shout.
“I didn’t tell you to get caught,” she exclaimed.
He hung his head and closed his eyes under the admonishment. In a few seconds he heard the cell door slowly slide open, creaking against old paint and rust. Rebecca stepped inside and closed the bars behind her. Tom felt her hands in his hair, rubbing, pulling, stroking. “My poor baby,” she said. He reached out blindly and grabbed her by her hips and dragged her closer to him. He buried his face in her stomach and breathed in her far-off scent. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too,” she said, and slid out of her clothes and lay beside Tom on the cot. They spooned and synchronized each other’s breathing.
“I just wanted to do something with my life. I wanted to be a success at something.” He began to cry, slow silent sobs that upset them both.
“But you did,” she said. “You set out to do something. You made a plan and executed it, all by yourself.”
“I’m in jail,” he said, raising his voice as much as he dared. “For murder, Rebecca. I am going to jail for a long time. I don’t know how to be in jail.”
From the far corner of his cell, or maybe the barred vents under his cot, came the cell neighbor’s harsh shouting voice: “Shut the fuck up you fucking fuck!” Tom stiffened but Rebecca’s body lay inert, unaffected.
“You see?” he whispered to her, “How am I going to survive in here?”
“We can take care of that guy,” she said in the dark. “And anyone else that might hurt you here.”
“How?”
He lay his head down on the pillow and listened to her as she breathed instructions. Yes, that could work. Why not? And yes, if this situation came up, she instructed him to react in this way. Yes, that would work, also. Will you stay with me, he asked her. Where else would I be, she answered and tapped him lightly on the forehead. She stroked his hair and he stretched his legs out to give his cock room.
“You can teach many people in here,” she said. “And they can teach you. Trust me. And me only.”
“Yes,” he whispered as she wrapped around him like a second skin. Until they felt as one. The secret sharer of his thoughts.
When the guard came and peered into the cell, he at first turned away in disgust. Then he rapped on the bars with his bare hands. “Ryder!” he shouted, “You can make those calls now.” He waited until Tom stood up and pulled his pants on.
“I don’t know who to call,” he said over his shoulder to Rebecca on the cot.
“You’ll think of someone,” the guard and Rebecca said at the same time, neither noticing the other was there. “Why don’t you call some random people out of the phone book. Tell them what happened to Joe Williams and let them know the same thing could happen to them. You could be an advocate for Consumer Life from prison.” She was suddenly excited. “They would surely pay to get you out of prison if you began scaring up business for them.”
“True.”
“And I will find a way out of this, for us. This is fabulous,” she said.
As the guard pulled Tom out of the cell, Tom looked back on his Rebecca. “What about escaping?” he asked.
“Fuck off,” the guard said and reached behind his back for handcuffs. Tom submitted easily.
Rebecca whispered the words that he already knew she was going to say, the words that were in his heart and his mind all along. “Not yet,” she said, “But soon. I will tell you what to do.”
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Note from the author
Thanks for reading my book! I hope you enjoyed it. It was a real blast to write. Please consider leaving a review at:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48049375-it-s-called-disturbing
Cheers,
Buddy Roy Baldry