Six Crime Stories (18 page)

 

*****

For five endless days
,
Tom lay on the sofa with the television on and imagined the things Ignatius Mayflower would make Sydney do. It was about all he could manage
,
as he was having trouble breathing and was growing steadily weaker from his illness.

And it drove him crazy. He couldn
'
t sleep for worrying about her.

What would the billionaire ask her to do? And how far would Sydney be willing to go?

With her husband
'
s life on the line
,
Tom was afraid she might go far.

He thought of Mayflower on his balcony
,
looking out over the beautiful gardens...with Sydney on her knees between his legs
,
her face in his lap.

Tom imagined her naked with Mayflower in a vast
,
luxurious bed...or with Mayflower and another woman
,
or two or three or more. Or with Mayflower and other men
,
doing things. Having things done to her.

Enjoying it in spite of herself.

Tom pictured her carrying a gun into a darkened room
,
as he had
,
and killing a man. Or killing a woman. He imagined her doing it with a knife
,
or sprinkling poison powder in someone
'
s drink...or killing a man while having sex with him in a hotel room or the back of a car or on stage in front of an audience.

Enjoying it in spite of herself.

And the worst of it was
,
at the same time that he was repulsed and enraged at the thought of her being used sexually or forced to commit some murderous act
,
part of him couldn
'
t stop hoping that she would come through. That she would comply with the billionaire
'
s wishes and come home with the cure.

He hated himself for thinking like that. For being so selfish that a part of him would be willing to live at the cost of his wife
'
s suffering.

For wanting her to save his life whatever it took.

For wanting her to prove she loved him as much as he loved her.

 

*****

On the fifth night
,
he took a sleeping pill--three of them
,
actually--and finally managed to get some rest. It was a deep
,
dreamless sleep that stretched long into the next morning
,
a sleep as heavy and black as death itself.

When he woke
,
he saw garlands of tinsel hanging from the ceiling fan.

Turning his head
,
he saw the dancing Santa on the dresser and candles in the windows. Rolling over
,
he saw the artificial Christmas tree in the corner
,
strung with lights and hung with ornaments.

Tom
'
s heart skipped a beat. The decorations could mean only one thing.

Sydney had come home while he was asleep.

Forcing aside his lingering grogginess
,
he swung his feet to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed.
"
Sydney?
"
he said
,
peering through the doorway and listening expectantly for some sound of her.
"
Honey?
"

There was no reply.
"
Sydney?
"
he called out again
,
but there was still nothing. Not even a sound.

Maybe she had come home and gone back out again to go to the store.

Tom turned to check the time on the digital clock on the bedside table...and frowned. A manilla envelope was propped in front of the clock
,
leaning back against the lamp.

And the envelope had his name on it
,
written in black marker in Sydney
'
s cursive scrawl.

Tom undid the envelope
'
s clasp and folded back the flap. As soon as he had it open
,
Sydney
'
s favorite perfume wafted up at him.

Reaching inside
,
he drew out a clear plastic baggie full of fine white powder. Relief flooded him; she had brought back the cancer cure
,
after all. She hadn
'
t let him down.

Placing the baggie on the sheets alongside him
,
he reached back into the envelope...and found another
powder-filled baggie. It was the second dose
,
he realized
,
the one that would make his recovery complete. Somehow
,
she had managed to get both doses in a single visit
,
instead of coming home with the first dose and having to return to Mayflower for the second.

Tom laid the second baggie atop the first and reached back into the envelope. He slid out a single sheet of Sydney
'
s stationery
,
covered with more of her familiar scrawl in blue ink.

"
Dearest Tom
,
"
she wrote.
"
This is the hardest letter I
'
ve ever written. This is the hardest thing I
'
ve ever had to do.

"
Mr. Mayflower gave me your cure. He gave me all of it at once. Please take the first dose as soon as possible and take the second dose one week later.

"
I
'
m so glad I could help you
,
Tom. I love you so much! I want you to live!

"
But you were right about him
,
Tom. He did ask me to do something terrible.
"

Tom
'
s mouth got dry
,
and his stomach clenched. His hands shook a little as he continued to read.

"
It
'
s something that will last for the rest of my life
,
"
wrote Sydney.
"
In order to save you
,
I can never see you again.

"
There
'
s no other way. If you ever try to find me
,
he
'
ll have you killed.
"

Tom was seized by a coughing jag. He sprayed blood on the note but couldn
'
t tear his eyes from the terrible words as he hacked.

"
I
'
m so sorry
,
"
wrote Sydney.
"
It
'
s so hard to go through with this
,
but I
'
d rather be apart from you than let you die. I
'
d give anything for you
,
Tom
,
even our life together.

"
Please don
'
t hate me! I love you
,
Tom! I love you!

"
Goodbye! I
'
ll love you forever!

"
Love
,
Sydney.
"

Tom tried to read the note again
,
but his cough was too severe. He doubled over on the bed
,
eyes filled with tears
,
and sprayed blood all over himself and the floor.

Wracked with rage and sadness and physical pain
,
he looked at the powder-filled baggies on the bed
,
the miracle cure paid for by his wife
'
s sacrifice. The thought of being healed didn
'
t hold the same appeal for him anymore.

He had lost the woman he loved. She might find suffering...she might find happiness...but she would never return. If he tried to get her back
,
he would be killed.

And yet...

And yet
,
he reached for the baggies anyway
,
scooped them up and hobbled to the kitchen to make tea. If he had to die
,
and he had the option
,
he would rather do it later.

He would rather do it for a good reason.

*****

The First Detect-Eve

The Tree of Knowledge didn
'
t exactly teach us everything we needed to know...like what to do with a dead man
'
s body
,
for example.

From experience
,
we knew that when an animal died
,
its body would rot and stink after a while. We
'
d figured out it was best to burn or bury them
,
but I guess we still thought people were different. The Voice had told us we would die someday
,
but it never really sank in until we finally saw a dead man.

My dead son
,
that is. Sweet
,
beautiful Abel
,
the light of my miserable life.

When we found him
,
lying out in the field
,
we just didn
'
t know what to do with him. To tell you the truth
,
we didn
'
t even realize he was dead at first. He wasn
'
t breathing
,
and he wouldn
'
t respond when we shook him and spoke to him
,
but we weren
'
t too bright back in those days. Maybe he was just sleeping soundly. Maybe he was in a trance. Maybe it was some kind of magic. Anything was possible back then.

I figured it out before my husband
,
but that didn
'
t come as a surprise. Adam had his good qualities
,
don
'
t get me wrong
,
but when God was handing out brains
,
he kind of got an early model
,
if you know what I mean. Not to mention that he was drunk a lot of the time
,
including that particular day. Unfortunately
,
he
'
d discovered the joys of fermented grapes before learning how to work out his problems constructively.

Let
'
s just say
,
ever since we got thrown out of Eden
,
Adam had his share of problems.

Anyway
,
once I finally got it through my head that something bad had happened to my boy
,
I got upset. My husband was no help
,
of course
,
because he was convinced Abel would wake up at any moment. There I was
,
in more pain than I
'
d experienced since Abel
'
s birth
,
just crying my eyes out...and Adam insisted on carrying Abel back to his bed at our camp so he
'
d be comfortable for the rest of his nap.

After which
,
Adam proceeded to stretch himself out on his own bed of straw to sleep off the grapes.

So I was left alone to mourn for my dead son
,
and it was terrible. Keep in mind
,
this was the first time I
'
d lost a loved one...the first time anyone had lost a loved one
,
in fact. These days
,
I
'
ve had a lot more experience with that kind of thing
,
which still doesn
'
t make it easy
,
but it
'
s never been as bad as that first time.

I cried and screamed all afternoon and all night. Sometimes
,
I
'
d calm down a little and sit there in a daze
,
like nothing had happened...but then
,
I
'
d look at my dead boy again and remember everything in a rush
,
and I
'
d start right back up again with the weeping.

Once
,
I pretended to convince myself that Adam had been right
,
and Abel was just sleeping after all. I knelt beside my boy and caressed his hand
,
calling his name in the darkness.

This
,
of course
,
accomplished nothing. The crying caught up to me again
,
worse than ever.

I think I cried for three days straight. My husband chimed in on day two
,
by which time Abel
'
s body had started to stink...but thanks to his stockpile of rotten grapes
,
Adam never went as far as I did. Before I knew it
,
he was snoring on his bed again.

As for me
,
I eventually passed out from sheer exhaustion. By the time I keeled over
,
my stomach ached
,
my throat was sore
,
and my eyes burned like open wounds.

Miraculously
,
when I awakened
,
I wasn
'
t sad anymore. I was angry.

Furious would be a better word. More than anything in the world
,
I wanted to find out who had done this to my boy.

And do the same to him.