Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife (8 page)

D
ESPITE HIS ANXIOUSNESS to get back to the cabin, Hart decided to sit down and take a rest. He was worried that he might fall asleep and that when he woke up, it would be dark. But his worries were unfounded as he had too much on his mind to sleep.

He was right about it getting dark, though. The sun was dropping out of sight, the tall trees seeming to hasten its descent.

He decided to speed up a little, his body running on fumes. God was he thirsty.

And then he stopped. He heard rumblings off in the distance. He strained his ears. It sounded like the crackling footfalls of some animal as its paws hit the forest’s needle strewn foundation. And then the muffled sounds of speech. Someone was coming.

Hart slowly moved himself sideways to small group of thick and closely-growing trees until he was thoroughly out of sight.

“The Lakers suck this year.” It was a man. He was about twenty years old and looked like a college student. He was talking to another man about the same age. They were walking at a brisk pace and didn’t even come close to seeing Hart who was peering around the trees.

Their voices got louder as they moved closer and closer to Hart, their conversation carefree without the slightest hint that someone might be listening.

“They need another superstar, dude. Kobe can’t do it all by himself,” said the other man.

Hart could feel himself breathing hard.
Why do I feel like a fugitive?
He didn’t know. But he did know that his gut told him not to be seen. That his story would somehow be his own if no one knew where he was.

Hart put the key in the lock and turned the knob. There was no reason it shouldn’t open but for some reason he had his doubts.

When he got inside the cabin, he made a beeline for the kitchen sink and filled a large glass of water. He downed it, filled it back up and downed it again. Then he stumbled to the couch and collapsed, his chest rising and falling.

It had been almost two hours since he had seen the two hikers in the forest, and the sun was firmly tucked in for the night. It was good to be home—or in the cabin, at least.

After a moment of lying down, Hart began to nod off. A second later, his head snapped forward and shook. He made a gasping sound and sat up straight. He had to know what was happening. He turned on the T.V., shocked by what he heard next.

A
S HE EXPECTED, the explosion was all over the local stations. The thing that surprised Hart was that apparently he, himself, was dead.

Two—not one—bodies were found among the burning wreckage, specifically at ground zero, a late model Acura.

Whitman, the current owner of Huncke’s convenience store and gas station, had recognized the couple from an earlier meeting a few days prior.

“They seemed like a nice couple. Spoke with them a couple days ago when they came in for some snacks and such,” Whitman said into a microphone held in front of him.

Then the mike was flicked back toward the reporter, a nicely dressed woman, mid-thirties with a flapper-style hat. “Do you have any idea, Mr. Whitman, who they are or where they were staying?”

“Well, as you can see, everything here was destroyed but I do remember their names from his credit card. A joint account, I guess. Hartence Smith, the Third and her name was, uh, Summer. Smith too, I think.”

The reporter turned toward the camera. “Well that should be helpful, as apparently the bodies were mangled beyond recognition. Even the teeth in both victims were just obliterated to dust, I’ve been told. Teeth being something forensic scientists often use to identify victims in such situations. Horrible, horrible tragedy.”

Angling toward Whitman, she placed her hand on his shoulder and inquired again, in a confirming manner, if he had any information about where the couple might be staying. Hart perked up. Whitman said he had no idea about anything else and that he had already told the police everything he knew.

As the reporter began to talk again, Whitman stuck his face toward the microphone. “They should check his credit card records. Maybe they—the sheriff can see which motel they were staying in.”

Hart couldn’t believe it.
Who the hell was that other guy in the car with Summer?

“I gotta call Brandy. Shit!” he said, remembering his dead phone. Then he ran into the bedroom to get a charger. After tearing apart his suitcase and his chest of drawers, he realized that he had forgotten his charger at home.

“Shit!”

He needed his phone. The cabin had no service. And then he remembered who he had gone on this trip with. Summer always remembered stuff like that. He checked her dresser and sure enough, Miss Organized had brought a charger along. He plugged his phone in and ran back to the T.V.

As expected, all the stations were reporting the same thing. Two bodies. A male and female.

Hart’s mind was working overtime. He couldn’t decide if this was a blessing or a curse. He didn’t have to worry about Summer anymore. He was now a millionaire. An ex-trucker. But who the hell was that other guy? There had to be an investigation. Before he went to the cops or the insurance company, he wanted some answers. His biggest fear was that he was somehow overlooking something and that if he did anything rash it might bite him in the ass later.

He had to talk to Brandy. She was the only one he could trust. But that would have to wait until his phone charged.

With nothing left to do for now, Hart made some food and planted himself in front of the television. He jogged around the dial until his “remote finger” was ready to fall off. It was the same news over and over but he couldn’t get enough. Finally, he fell asleep, Whitman’s interview burned into his brain.

For the second time in a few hours, Hart woke up with a start, gasping. He had been dreaming about explosions. His thoughts were unsettled, feeling like he had gotten drunk halfway through a movie and was completely unsure how things had turned out. The storyline was hazy and seemed to lack finality. Who the hell was that other man in the car? This was no movie. He had to play things right. If he did, he’d be a millionaire, if not, well, God only knew what would happen to him.

All at once, a feeling came over him. He didn’t want to be alone. His mouth was dry and he ambled over to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then he looked at his phone. Three bars. Plenty for now. He called Brandy, holding the phone tightly to his head. He began pacing.

“Hart?”

It was her. He felt such relief at hearing her voice. It was nothing. Just Brandy saying his name. But in that context it felt like a warm blanket. And the feeling of solitude melted away. He stopped pacing, instead resting his elbows on the kitchen counter. He clutched the phone, feeling the impending reassurance he knew was about to overcome him. He was no longer alone.

“Yeah, it’s me, Baby.”

“Oh my God! I was afraid you were dead. I’ve been listening to the news and was just too scared to call you.”

“You did the right thing,” he said. “God, it’s great to hear your voice. I have missed you so much.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Hart. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Baby. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me, too.”

“We just have to play this the right way and we’re home free. It’s going to be great.”

Brandy sighed happily.

“I’m going to kiss you all over when I see you,” Hart said, smiling.

“And I’m going to let you. And then—”

“Wait! I heard something.”

Hart strained his ears. Then he heard it again. It was the front door. This time somebody was clearly knocking.

“Shit, the cops. I’ll call you back,” he whispered, and hung up. As he walked toward the door, his mind raced. Why hadn’t he talked to Brandy about what to say to the cops?
Just relax, just relax
.

Hart stood up straight and flung open the door. Then he turned white

S
UMMER WATCHED THROUGH the driver’s side window as Hart did his double-time walk to the restroom. Poor guy, she thought.
And still no underwear
. She shook her head.

And then she sat very still and listened. She loved the sound of the birds. It seemed to be a constant background, the soundtrack of the forest. And she thought about how easy it was to take it for granted. She wanted to appreciate it all, realizing that that had not always been the case. She was so lucky that her grandmother had a cabin up here. It was the perfect getaway and it really was beautiful.

She looked out the passenger side window, across the road, at the vast valley. It seemed that every square inch was covered and dripping with beauty. Great pines as far as the eye could see. And that soundtrack. That ever present background melody that gently drove the point home. Nature had thought of everything. And a sudden urge came over her to stretch her legs. She glanced around the car. Cell phone. Purse. Ahh, camera.

Flinging her purse to the floor, she stuffed it under her seat, grabbed the camera and jumped out of the car. She was about to slam the door when she remembered the shaky nozzle that was stuck in the gas tank, opting for a gentle close instead.

Then camera in hand, she ran toward the road, looking back only once on the off chance that Hart might emerge. Nope. The only sign of life she saw was Whitman. He was in the store yucking it up on the phone, oblivious to the world around him.

As she ran across the road she wondered if people like Whitman, whom she was sure had lived here forever, no longer saw the beauty of the forest. No longer heard its song. Could be. Maybe it’s just human nature.

The road was a two-laner. Sometimes busy, usually not. It was funny, she thought, how these kinds of towns, so isolated, often gave her the creeps. It really was ghost townish. But something about this particular atmosphere gave her a different feeling and she felt overcome by its tranquility. She could finally appreciate why her grandmother liked to get away up here.

On the other side of the road was a relatively small strip of land, nothing exciting. What made it beautiful, however, was its precipitous nature, one of the many natural foyers that overlooked Cardsdale’s picturesque valley.

Careful of her footing, Summer stood about five feet from the edge of the drop that lay before her. She took it in for awhile and was soon snapping pictures, thoroughly engrossed and at peace with the world.

Harry Mondran’s opportunistic ways had always served him well. Due to other aspects of his nature, however, they would never allow him to thrive, but only to survive. His naturally solid mind had years ago succumbed to the ravages of drugs, alcohol and a generally hard and unsanitary lifestyle. It all seemed to be the result of bad choices, one after another, that snowballed and in a sense snuck up on him so gradually that he had never really known what had hit him.

A straight-A student in high school, until his senior year, Harry’s upper middleclass upbringing seemed defenseless against a young man who had come to the conclusion that the world was “bullshit” and that there had to be more to life than just getting good grades and taking the traditional path of college, culminating in a boring job, a house in the suburbs, a wife and a couple of kids.

Maybe originally, had he thought in less extreme post-adolescent terms, he might have been able to achieve his goals in a more moderate fashion, but those days were long behind him. He just never seemed to learn the lesson that a party can be fun, but that a party everyday has consequences.

Like an animal, unable to think conceptually, in any meaningful way beyond the present, Harry survived anyway he could now, his plans for a natural existence in some Thoreau-like utopia having died years ago.

Those opportunistic instincts of his, however, were very much alive when he pushed his way through the bushes on that bright and hopeful summer day. He had arrived just in time to see a young woman emerge from a beautiful late-model Acura, closing the door with a certain dainty quality that somehow intrigued him.

Quickly surveying the rest of the scene, Harry liked what he saw. An unattended car, nozzle pumping away with no one in sight. A car so nice the owner’s bitch wouldn’t even dare slam his doors. Go.

“Come on,” he said as he glanced back. Her smile was half-hearted.

“Stelly” Parker loved being with Harry when she was wasted, which it turned out was most of the time. The periods in between getting loaded, however, were often torturous for her. It wasn’t Harry that was her problem. She just wasn’t much of a go-getter. Even if it involved doing what she had to do in order to score the only thing that made life worthwhile for her.

In the past, this slothful reticence could go on for nearly a week, until the pain became so bad Stelly would resort to almost anything for “a slice of junk,” as she called it. When it got to this point, she would become a one-woman trail- blazing ringleader of vice. Desperate and impromptu armed robberies, chain-hooking in feverish twenty-four hour marathon sessions, brazen snatch-and-grab muggings, you name it. If it wasn’t planned out, dripping with mania, and had a high degree of self-destructive risk, it was for her.

That’s what was so nice about Harry. He was a steady earner. And he rarely insisted she come along. He brought home the bacon, cooked it and injected it. Usually, she’d hang out at “home” which was nothing more than a lean-to in the woods, but may as well have been the Trump Towers for all she knew most of the time.

But this was one of those occasions when she and Harry had ventured off together. A nice little walk in the woods to break the monotony, he had told her. And then back to their little forested sanctuary.

And it was nice. They held hands and talked. She told him again how Hollywood had screwed her over, leaving her nothing but a toothless and desiccated little waif, alone and strung out on those fabled cinematic streets that broke promises, and hearts. And she told him without bitterness, with a smile even. As if because it was a long time ago, it had somehow happened to someone else.

Harry smiled, too, taking simple pleasure in her pleasure. In some crazy way, this cracked shell of a human being gave his life some meaning. It was a horrible existence by most people’s standards, but at least he had someone to share it with. Someone who never judged him. Never maligned him. And never made him feel like anything other than her savior, protector and provider.

This being the case, whether by habit or pure coincidence, Harry had led her to the periphery of Huncke’s. And when the doorbell rings, dammit, you answer it.

Stelly’s smile, already weak, quickly faded all together. She needed desperation to do this. When Harry saw her face, he reached into his back pocket. The flask was three-quarters filled, the top quarter drained on their short walk over. He handed it to her, telling her to hurry. As she tilted her head back, the straight whiskey filled her throat, the burn familiar and comforting.

Harry, meanwhile, took his already lit cigarette from behind his ear—an odd habit he had picked up from his father—and placed it loosely between his lips.

Then he pulled the flask from Stelly’s lips, grabbed her hand, and the two of them ran to the car like greedy pirates toward a treasure chest. She muffled her giggles which were nothing more than a manifestation of pure fear.

As they got closer, their hands separated, he bolting toward the driver’s side and she toward the passenger’s. It was beat the clock and they both knew it.

“Close the door, quietly,” Harry said, noticing Summer standing across the street, eyes still soaking up the valley.

Stelly closed the door and began rifling through the glove box, her eyes continuously looking side to side. In contrast, he kept his eyes on his work. If he had to confront someone, he’d deal with it then. He’d become a madman if he had to. No one was going to stop him from taking something he wanted.

“Bingo,” he said. Then he nudged Stelly’s legs and reached down to where Summer’s purse was with one hand, and blindly whipped his cigarette around his back and out the driver’s door with the other.

Stelly grabbed for the purse, eager to see what was inside.

Harry closed it. “Later,” he said, and they continued to search the car like a pair of honey badgers.

By the time they felt the heat it was too late. The windows were orange, fusing into the rippling air. A partition, a fiery wall of flames, rose like a burning tide, laying siege to the driver’s side port. They both pawed at the passenger side door, inadvertently thwarting each other’s efforts. But only for a second. All at once they were floating like lotto balls, sucked to and fro into a swirling vapor of heat that instantly melded into an amorphous cloud of gaseous destruction.

The explosion was like a starting pistol that marked Summer’s literal slide into the depths of the unknown. Unable to pilot her own body, she felt the air push her as effortlessly as any concrete object may have. In an instant, she was off her feet, whipping randomly as if on a ride that had not been very well thought out, and certainly never checked for safety. She crashed downward into the lip of the cliff’s edge. A solid surface true, yet only for a brief moment. Scrambling fingers and fruitless grasping could not save her from the fate once cautioned by the masses to Columbus himself. She’d fallen off the end of the earth.

Her tumble was a brief but scary one, tree branches a blessing and a curse as they both slowed her descent and scratched her at the same time. Like a Pachinko ball, her direction was decidedly downward. How far she’d drop and the exact trajectory of that drop, however, was a complete mystery.

Her screaming, meanwhile, was as non-linear as her fall had been, continuously muffled as her voice caught in her throat each time her ratchety decline suddenly altered direction. Not that her cries would have mattered anyway in the midst of an explosion.

Hitting the ground was a relief, given the circumstances. But only for a moment, as her sense of consciousness cut out just as a battered feeling seemed to permeate her body.

When she woke up, whatever bruises she may have had, seemed to quickly take a back seat to feelings of fear and confusion.