| |
Pulling into my driveway, I head for the barn and pull inside. Only when I kill the engine do I retrieve my cell phone from the console cup holder and view the new text. As expected, it’s from Jennifer. Once more, the anxiety combined with burning anger returns, and my blood begins to simmer.
I open the text and read.
Oh my God I am so, so sorry, Martin. My Mother had to be rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. One of her bouts of horrible colitis I’m afraid. They are going to keep her overnight and perform some tests. She’s not getting any younger so she needs me. I hope you will forgive me for missing our date. Poor thing, you probably thought I stood you up. My dearest Martin I hope you know by now that I would never ever do such a thing to the man I love with all my heart and soul...the man whose photos hang on my wall in the basement. Did you know I have a Martin Jordan space dedicated to my favorite bestselling author? The one man I love more than any other? The man who makes love to me every night in my imagination. I promise I will make it up to you Martin. Maybe we can take a shower in the bathroom in your upstairs master bedroom. Maybe we can also make love on that big king-sized mattress with the two big windows open and a cool breeze soothing our heated naked bodies. I want to go down on you, Martin, and I want you to do the same for me. Then, I want your cock in me and you can climax right inside me. Who knows, it’s possible we can have our own little baby together and live like one big happy family. Do you like the idea of that Martin? Do you love me as much as I love you? I’m waiting on pins and needles for your reply.
I’m barely finished with reading her long, deranged text when another far shorter text comes through.
PS. Even though she’s in considerable pain I told my mother about us and how we love one another. I told her you are writing a book for me and how you are dedicating it to me...Dedicating it to me with love. She was so happy she started to cry.
“She started to cry because now she knows for certain she’s got a nutjob for a daughter,” I whisper to myself.
I return the phone to the interior pocket of my coat. My heart is pulsing in my chest and my temples are throbbing. Bringing my fingers to the back of my head, I gently touch the thick, egg-sized bruise. When I gaze at my finger pads, I can see that they’re no longer covered in blood. It means the bleeding has stopped. That is some good news at least.
Getting out of the truck, I exit the barn, leaving the big sliding wood door open. I recall the portion of Jennifer’s text where she said she could see us making love in the bathroom off the master bedroom, or in my king-sized bed with the two windows open. How would she know the layout of my house like that if she didn’t have access to it? Even the intruder never made it past the kitchen, as far as I could tell.
My stomach sinks as I approach the back kitchen door and unlock the door by punching in the code. As the lockset tumblers fall, an idea fills my aching brain. What if Jennifer has managed to breach my home at some point? What if she installed some little cameras everywhere? You can buy tiny, spy-like digital cameras right on Amazon.
“Well, I’ll be a dumb son of a bitch,” I say aloud.
About facing, I don’t walk back to the barn, I run. Heading back inside, I go to the long rough wooden wall opposite the pickup’s front grill. Hanging by old six-penny nails are all sorts of old tools like hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, and a couple of crowbars. It’s the crowbars I’m interested in.
I grab the bigger one off the wall. It’s been hanging there for so long, a thick spider web is torn open, and a big black, furry spider jumps onto the wall and scurries away. For a split second, I stand there stunned. No that’s not the right word. More like catatonic. I hate spiders. It’s one of the reasons I don’t go into the barn all that much other than to park the pickup.
Making my way back out of the barn, I head for my writing studio. Entering the space, I can see and feel that the fire has gone out. I don’t care. I’m not here for a dose of heat. I’m here for the whiskey. I grab the bottle and, setting the crowbar on the desk, steal a deep swig. The whiskey goes right to work on my nervous system. It doesn’t calm me, so much as adds fuel to a fire that’s burning inside me.
I cap the bottle and, grabbing it with one hand, pick up the crowbar with the other. Leaving the studio, I cross the lawn to the door of the kitchen and throw it open. I’m going to be perfectly honest here. Something’s gotten into me...invaded my body and my blood. I’m no stranger to whatever the hell it is. Like I said, it feels like a fire...like my brain and veins are on fire. I’m no stranger to the body snatcher since it’s what landed me in a hospital before. It’s what caused Laura to leave me.
But I don’t want to get into that at present. I just know that there’s something I have to do now that Jennifer is spying on me, and who knows who else is spying on me too. Maybe the dude who cold-cocked me over the head with a baseball bat is in on the action. Maybe the entire town hates me.
With my hands full, I head upstairs and go to my bedroom. Inside, I set the crowbar on the bed, and steal another swig of whiskey from the bottle. Then, placing the bottle on the dresser of drawers, I pick up the crowbar and stand beside the bed, my legs spread shoulder length apart, the metal bar gripped in both my hands like that cowardly bastard’s baseball bat. I’m aiming at the plaster and lath wall directly behind the head of the bed.
Note to self: don’t do what you’re about to do, crazy man.
I swing.