Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2) (13 page)

I
f Pam
and Melody were good indicators, Scott had problems with women. Maybe he liked to boss people around, something simple like that, and had hurt Melody’s feelings.

I waited until well after five o’clock on the off chance I’d have another patient, but nobody showed up. To be honest, I was waiting for Pam and Melody to leave. I wasn’t sure what was going on with all the finger wagging and profanity, and I hoped I wouldn’t need to find out. Nobody was dead or dying by my hand, and that was good enough for me. The rest was Scott Schaefer’s business.

When I finally peeked out, I saw a man carrying a laptop case waiting near the main entrance, looking back past the front desk. A second later, a thirty-something woman came rushing out of another office carrying a laptop case of her own. The man said something funny and she laughed. Then they left together.

I wasn’t sure what to do with the whole therapist thing. It wasn’t like with Fred and the security guard job where all I had to do was write
Nothing to report
over and over again. I’d inherited some serious responsibilities for which I had no training. If one of Scott’s patients thought I’d abandoned him or her and then committed suicide, that’d be on me.

Scott’s keys were in a rain slicker hanging in a shallow closet. After pocketing the keys, I grabbed the coat and had another look at Scott’s phone. It was like looking at something from the future. At first I didn’t know what to do, then found I could touch the icons on the screen and little windows would pop up. Also, if I moved my finger while touching the screen, all the buttons moved at the same time, and then a new screen with new buttons popped up. I was like a caveman playing with a flashlight.

It had an icon that said
Calendar
, so I clicked it. The date showed May 28, 2013. An astonishing five years had passed since my last ride.

My exile had seemed unbearably long this time, and I’d suspected … well, not
years
. Maybe a year at most. But five? Unbelievable. I wondered if the Cubs had managed to win the World Series, or if someone had cured cancer, or if aliens had shared their technology with us, because this phone was
cool
.

Then something else happened: I got a phone call.

Now look—I wasn’t completely prehistoric here. But the moving screen-thing was throwing me off my game. And when the call came in, all the icons disappeared, replaced by a picture of a pretty brunette named
Tara
with a green
Answer
bubble underneath it. I stood there staring at it, frozen with indecision. Where were the damn buttons?

After it stopped ringing, just as I was about to figure out how the voicemail worked, Tara called back, and again I didn’t answer it. When she called back yet again, I almost touched the
Answer
bubble, but the ringing cut off abruptly.

Whenever a ride comes along with significant others in his life, it complicates things. Particularly when those significant others were as pretty as Tara. Even worse when the ride has kids, and I’m stuck with the knowledge their father will soon be dead or in jail because of me. Whatever my ride had done to them or their mother before I got there, for the rest of my stay I’d be quite harmless. Friendly, even. Almost like ol’ Dad changed his mind and decided not to be abusive or scary or a drunk anymore. Then I’d do what I always did and nothing would be the same for them again.

I looked at my brand new left hand and saw I wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Maybe Tara was Scott’s sister? Or another patient?

Through a series of clicks and swipes I found the button for voicemail, called it back, and gave up when it asked for a passcode. If needed, I could always find a store for the carrier and have it reset, but it wasn’t a priority. For now, I’d wait until she called back. Lots of options.

I put on my jacket, locked the office door behind me, and left the building. It was warm outside, the ground was wet, and the sky overcast. Water pooled in the gutters halfway into the parking lot, as if from a recent storm. Careful not to get my feet wet, I found Scott’s car using my normal method—walking around clicking the
Lock
button.

Scott’s driver’s license showed him living in Perrysburg. I pulled out of the parking lot and saw I was on West Central Avenue. When I got to the corner I knew exactly where I was. More than eleven years after looking at a map of Toledo and the surrounding area, I still felt comfortable the streets were the same. Especially in so rundown a city, where the economy was historically so bad it wasn’t uncommon for people to burn down houses for insurance money.

The ride to Perrysburg was quick and relatively free of traffic. Traffic would have meant the employment rate had improved since my last visit, but I got over the Maumee River in ten minutes. The change couldn’t have been more marked. Where before the landscape was spotted with vacant lots and buildings for rent on every corner, now there were tidy subdivisions and decorative split rail fences between the houses, and not a crumbly sidewalk in sight.

I found Scott’s house at the end of a comfortable cul-de-sac with a wide disk of green in the middle that was probably home to snowmen and snow forts in the winter. The house was blue and white and new looking, had a two-car garage, and there wasn’t a stray toy anywhere. Hurray for no kids.

The remote for the garage was clipped to the visor, and when I clicked it, my heart sank a little when I saw another car parked inside. Tara’s, I supposed.

Frowning, I looked at my hand again and saw a thin circle of white in Scott’s already light skin—on his ring finger. I checked both pockets, and wonder of all, I pulled out a shiny gold wedding ring.

“My precious,” I said, and put it on.

Resignedly, I pulled in beside the other car and got out. I came around and peeked in the car’s window and saw a bottle of hand lotion, an open can of diet soda, and a pink hairband on a little shelf in the dashboard.

I considered my options. Maybe Scott had a toothache and couldn’t talk much and I’d just nod a lot. Or maybe Scott had a bad day at the office and just wanted to watch TV. Partially true—I did want to watch TV. Or maybe I’d ask about her day, thereby learning more and getting her used to me being home—go on the offensive right away. And
then
watch TV.

Before I could come up with another strategy, the inside door to the garage opened and there was Tara, looking prettier than her phone picture. She was about thirty-five. Tall, with shoulder-length brown hair, and a small, attractive mouth.

“What are you doing?” she said, eyeing me suspiciously.

I turned my head and examined the side mirror, like she’d caught me in the process of doing just that—and got a close-up look at my new ride. White guy, but I knew that by looking at my hands. But this guy was pasty white, with red hair and red eyebrows. No bristly red mustache, thank goodness, or I’d clip that sucker off at the first opportunity. Some things I cannot abide. When I smiled, Scott’s teeth were even and healthy looking.

“Toothache,” I said, standing up straight.

She looked upset.

“I got tired of waiting at the restaurant,” Tara said. “I thought you were serious when you said … Never mind. Guess I was wrong. Again.”

Everyone’s wrong sometimes.

I followed her inside and shut the door behind me, sniffing the air as I went. No cooking smells. I wondered if that meant microwave dinner or pizza. My vote was for pizza.

The Schaefers had a modern-looking kitchen with a shiny double stove and lots of great appliances. Thankfully, one of them was a microwave.

“Something wrong with your phone?” she said.

I rubbed my jaw. “It hurts when I talk on the phone.”

“Oh that’s right,” she said drily. “You have a toothache. Listen, next time, don’t even bother, okay?”

“It’s no bother,” I said. “We could still go out. Or maybe get pizza.”

Tara gazed coldly at me for several seconds. “Why don’t you call your little slut to come over and cook for you?”

“Baby…”

“Don’t you fucking call me baby!” she yelled. “Stop the lies! Do you even have a toothache?”

She waited for an answer, then rolled her eyes and pushed past me.

“I never lie about pizza,” I said.

Tara stopped midstride and threw me an odd look. That was a Dan thing to say, and I was supposed to be out of my Dan mind.

“You lie about everything,” she said, and walked out of the kitchen.

A minute later she returned carrying a patent leather clutch purse and wearing a shiny white jacket.

“Don’t wait up,” she said, and opened the door to the garage.

Nodding, trying to appease, I said, “I promise not to.”

Tara threw me another of those odd looks. “What’s with you, anyway?”

“Toothache,” I said. Then, because I was supposed to be a psychologist, I added, “How does that make you feel?”

She threw me a final look of disgust and left, which was actually okay.

More pizza for me.

B
efore I even touched the
television, I researched all the must-watch stuff on the blessedly password-free computer upstairs in the little office they had. I briefly checked the news and saw the world was just as messed up as ever, a few different names mixed-in for variety. I also found an article about Nate Cantrell, the lotto winner—how he’d founded a charity for needy kids and donated half his wealth to it, all while keeping his job at the elementary school. That guy was totally going to Heaven.

A very quick search turned up what I wanted to know from my adventures in Connecticut—Fred Evans had died in that house after killing eight men. The article had more to say, but I didn’t feel like reading it and moved on.

I almost tried logging into my free email account to see if the minister had written me back all those years ago. It was nice knowing there was someone out there who knew the real me, even if he tended toward grumpy and judgmental and a little bit scary. But if whatever Scott Schaefer was up to was illegal, I didn’t want my online activity traced back to the minister. Besides, after five years of inactivity, my account had probably expired.

When last I’d been in the world, on-demand television was still in its infancy, relegated mostly to sporting events or movies you could watch in your hotel room. So imagine my joy when, after hitting
Menu
on the remote and clicking around, I found whole video stores of movies and a staggering number of TV shows available. Most of them you had to pay for, but I’d be gone before it showed on the Schaefers’ cable bill.

There were so many shows I hadn’t seen, so many movies. I’d missed years of Oscars and Oscar nominees and award-winning TV dramas like
Breaking Bad
and
The Walking Dead
.

For the rest of the evening and into the morning, I drank Scott’s gourmet coffee and ate pizza while watching back-to-back perfection. All the very best stuff and none of the junk, all at my finger tips while I sat there giggling my butt off and having a blast. This was the most fun I’d had in forever—with extra cheese.

Tara came home around 2 a.m. I heard her keys jangle on the countertop in the kitchen. She came into the living room smelling faintly of cigarettes and beer. She’d obviously been out having fun.

“What are
you
doing up?” she said, slurring a little at the end of it. She wasn’t wobbling around yet, but she was getting there. She’d obviously driven home that way, but now was not the time to lecture Scott’s wife about the dangers of drinking and driving.

“Watching TV,” I said. “You wanna join me? I saved you a slice.”

I pointed out the pizza box in case she’d missed it on the way in.

For the first time, a smile flashed across her pretty face, and then it was gone. She opened the pizza box lid.

“I thought you had a toothache,” she said.

“I do,” I said. “I had to chew on the other side.”

I could feel her thinking about it.

“You seriously ate all that?” she said.

“Seriously, I did. And we’re going to need more cookies, too. Also, we’re out of milk.”

Tara held up an unsteady finger—
hold on
—and walked back to the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator open and close, followed by the little metal trashcan with the foot lever clank open and shut. Then she came back.

“You really drank all the milk?” she said.

I nodded. “I ate all the cookies, too … I’m sorry, did you want—”

Tara threw back her head and laughed. She had great laugh, full of scorn and personality. And even though she’d been nothing but mean to me since I arrived, I was able to distance myself from it. I mean she was mad at Scott, right? And I suspected Scott was the kind of guy people frequently got mad at.

“See you in the morning, asshole,” she said, and gave me a toodles sort of wave, then headed toward the stairs. I thought I heard more laughing from upstairs, and then it was just me and my big TV again and, oh yeah, that extra slice I was saving for Tara. Her loss, my gain, and Heisenberg just blew up a bunch of bad guys with some sort of chemical stuff.

What an easy ride. Scott had money, great television, and a good-looking wife who didn’t get along with him. It was almost like the Great Whomever was easing me back into the cycle again. I didn’t care why, because mine was not to reason why…

“Mine is but to
chew
,” I said, and took a bite of Tara’s pizza.

By 4 a.m. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I went upstairs, entered the master bedroom, stripped down to my underwear, and approached the bed.

Tara was sprawled naked in the middle—wow, she looked great. In some ways, this was the hardest part of being me. I stared at her for about ten more seconds—being me—then scootched in and did my best to nudge her over to make room. She was tall, which meant she wasn’t light like most girls.

After what seemed like no time later, I woke up to someone yelling, “Get out of my bed, you son of a bitch!”

Hard slaps rained down from above, and I covered my head to protect myself. I glanced back and saw Tara on her knees, still naked, with her hands raised like claws and her lips pulled back in a snarl that was ferocious and sexy at the same time. When she reared back to slap me again, I slipped off the bed and landed on my butt and elbows and scrabbled clumsily to my feet.

“Would you calm down?” I said.

Tara told me my room was down the hall, “for being a cheating son of a bitch.”

Shuddering suddenly in pain, I said, “Oh boy,” and rushed through the open door to the master bath.

“Don’t you
dare!
” she shouted, chasing after me.

Boy I dared. I sat down in the preferred location and dared loudly, majestically, with gusto. Tara came in with claws raised, still yelling at me. She held off long enough to see the look of horror on my face and … and …
screamed with laughter
.

“Seriously?” I said.

Something felt terribly wrong, and I worried she’d somehow poisoned me. Was that why I’d been sent back? Was it the Nate and Erika situation again, with the crazy fiancée replaced by a jilted, vindictive wife?

Tara stood there shaking with laughter and pointing at me. Somewhere inside, it felt like a monster was trying to claw its way free, like something from a scary movie. Soon, even Tara couldn’t stand being in there with me. She left and shut the door. A few seconds later, the door cracked open again and a can of air freshener sailed into the room and rolled to a stop about five feet away, then the door shut again.

Minutes later, after the initial pains had subsided, I realized what Tara’s strange pizza perplexity had been about last night. She’d known something about Scott I hadn’t: he was lactose intolerant.
Violently
so.

Years ago, I’d caught a ride in a street corner drug dealer who survived by killing other drug dealers and taking over their turf. It had been a weird feeling, always looking over my shoulder for a car to come barreling through an intersection, guns-a-blazin’. Somehow I’d kept from being shot for the entirety of the ride. Then, one day, I bought some shrimp cocktail at a supermarket. I’d eaten a few pieces, then a few more—and then suffocated to death in the parking lot. Ever since, I’ve always tried to be careful around shellfish and peanut butter.

I’d been in one other lactose intolerant ride before, but it had been nothing like this. I wasn’t going to die from it, but if it kept up like this I’d want to.

About ten minutes later, I finally got up and limped over to the sink to wash my hands. I glanced at myself in the mirror—and nearly went blind. I mean, this guy was
white
. I had red gashes along my neck from where Tara’s Wolverine claws had raked me, but I wasn’t bleeding.

When I got to the bedroom, the bed was made up but nobody was there, and my clothes from the night before were gone. I found them in another room down the hall, tossed on
my
bed.

I took a shower in another bathroom on the same floor, then got dressed with the clothes I found in the closet and a chest of drawers. When I went downstairs, Tara was in the kitchen making bacon and eggs—for herself. Which was fine. I wasn’t that hungry anyway, though it did smell good.

I cupped my rumbling stomach and bent over in another spasm of pain. Seconds later, it went away.

“Tara, sorry about…”

“Just stay out of my room,” she said, snapping her words off at the end like she was mad at them. “You lost those privileges when you fucked that slut at your job. If she calls here again I’m calling the police.”

Melody, I figured. This guy was a piece of work.

“It’s your room, I know,” I said. “I was just tired. Wasn’t thinking straight and went in there automatically.”

She shook her head and scrambled her eggs more vigorously.

I rooted through the cabinets looking for a cup, but opened the one with the tupperware in it.

“What are you looking for?” she said.

“Not sure,” I said, and opened another cabinet. This one had the dinner plates and bowls. The next one over had the glassware. I got a glass down and filled it with water.

“You’re acting really weird,” she said, pouring her eggs into the pan.

“I’m just not feeling well.”

“What were you thinking of, eating like that? Drinking milk?”

I shrugged:
you know me.

“Well, it was stupid,” she said.

For once, she didn’t sound as angry as she normally did, which was refreshing. Even though it wasn’t my fault she was mad at me, my psyche didn’t like it, and it was wearisome.

Tara took her eggs and bacon and left the room. In the living room, the television came on. I considered joining her, but she could barely stand me, and I desperately needed to find a bathroom nobody cared about.