Thursday, September 13, 2007

Short Story: The Swerve

The Swerve
by BW Koontz

I knew at the time she was going to be trouble. The kind of trouble you like getting into. The tall, dark-eyed, pretty kind. The kind where your whole world stops turning for just a moment, and you realize the girl standing in front of you asking for your help to find her Psych 101 class will never, ever leave your mind again.

The problem was, Jessica Andrews also liked getting into trouble.

A lot of it. And I’m a fairly quiet kind of guy. We went on a few dates, I fell madly in love, and then she announced we were finished. I pushed for a reason; she just pushed me away. The usual give and give more in any one-sided relationship until the desperate, drowning, love-struck person wakes up and realizes that rescue is a long way off and decides to swim for shore.

But she never left my mind. Ever. So to work out a truce, I actually heard the worst words in any relationship leave my nervous lips: Let’s be friends. And through a haze of self-pity and despair, I heard her say she’d like nothing better and that I was already her best friend.

I thought: Just, you know, not good enough to date. But I didn’t voice my opinions out loud, because now we’re true-blue “friends to the end.” Of course, I still loved her. And I couldn’t move on. Couldn’t even think of anyone else the same way. Stamp me: Taken, With No Fringe Benefits. Right across the forehead. Thanks.

The Call

In the months following our break up, in a love-induced, probably unhealthy late night phone call, I told her that even though we weren’t together, and even though she was now seeing Troy Pavlic, Kingston Community College’s own basketball MVP, if she ever found herself in too much trouble, I was just a phone call away.
I mentioned that she liked to get into trouble, right? Jessica was a party girl. And not just the kind who knows her way around a drunk-filled room without spilling her Vodka and Coke. No, I mean, the kind of girl who someday is going to end up face down in a ditch two miles from the party and have no idea how she got there.
Despite that obvious blemish, I could sense that she didn’t necessarily want to be the party girl. It was kind of thrust onto her. She knew she was hot and popular, and she definitely used it to her advantage. The two short months we were “officially” together were two of the best and worst of times, not to misquote Charles Dickens.
Like the song says, you’re way too beautiful, girl. That’s why it’ll never work. And she did just about have me suicidal at times. I really, really wanted to be the good boyfriend and let her flirt a little bit and have fun and all that, but she’d call me and say she wasn’t going to see me that evening because her friends had called and wanted her to go to yet another party, and how she understood that I didn’t want to go because “that just isn’t your thing, Nathan.” And cool ol’ understanding Nathan didn’t speak up and say that, actually, maybe I should go to one of these parties. But no, it wasn’t worth the heartburn watching the endless parade of guys trying to hit on her.
So in that respect, being “just friends” made my life a little less stressful. Now she didn’t have to call and tell me when she went to a party, so most days I had no clue. We shared a class together (the aforementioned Psych 101 – I daily thanked the College Schedule Fairy about that lucky coincidence), so I either just heard about it the next day or saw it written all over her tired face and bloodshot eyes. But she never called. She never took me up on the offer to bail her out of trouble. And my cell phone remained silent.
Until about 20 minutes ago. That’s why I’m driving about 15 miles over the speed limit at 3:30 in the morning, heading north as fast as I can. Because that’s just how you are when you’re in love.

The Drive

I keep the accelerator pressed to the floor now that I’m out of town and onto I-90, the interstate heading northwest into the hills and eventually, to Washington state. Our conversation keeps playing over and over in my head. Her slurred voice. The strain evident in her speech, the slight tremor of fear.
Oh, Nathan. I screwed up. I don’t know what happened. I—
I clench the steering wheel tighter and pray I get there in time. What on earth possessed her to drive 45 miles to the neighboring town of Muddy Waters to go to a party? I couldn’t even remember if she had any friends that far away. Not that it mattered. If there was a party anywhere in the state, she’d find it.
I—I’m at a party in Muddy Waters. It’s, um, it’s 1527 Baker Street. Oh, Nathan, I don’t know. I think someone put something in my drink. I feel so funny. I feel like sleeping. My friend left with some guy, and she’s my ride. Can you, uh…
She didn’t have to say any more. I was already running out the door and getting into my truck, the address written on a torn and food-stained pizza box lid. I’ll be there as fast as I can, I say, and I hear breathing for another minute, and maybe a sob of fear, and then the phone goes dead.
As I take the off-ramp to Highway 95, the intersecting road heading due north all the way to the Canadian border, my cell phone rings. Maybe it’s Jessica, and that thought makes my hands tremble so badly I can barely flip the cover open.
It’s not Jessica – it’s my dad. I almost hang up on him. We get along okay. When we aren’t talking to each other. Or in the same room together.
Nate, he says. I hate it when he calls me Nate. Nate, I know it’s late. Or early, actually. So I’m sorry if I woke you…I…I just wanted to let you know that I’m in town again for a few weeks. Maybe we can hook up for coffee or something.
I mumble something about being busy with school. Silence greets me for a few moments. Inwardly I wince a little. He’s trying to reach out. I just don’t feel like being reached right now.
Yeah, okay. He’s defensive now. That’s fine. I have a lot of work to do anyway. My local customers all want a piece of me while I’m in town. Maybe next time, huh? Sorry I bothered you this early.
My dad is a Personal Banking Representative for a large commercial bank. Basically, that means he gets to be the lapdog to a bunch of high-money clients. Or as I told him once to his face, he gets paid pretty well for indentured servitude.
Lost in my thoughts, I barely notice the sign. Welcome to Muddy Waters. Population: 3,981. I notice, but pay no attention to the warning immediately thereafter: 35 MPH – Speeds Strictly Enforced.
In minutes, I’m on the main drag through town, frantically scanning street signs partially lit from my high beams. Dawn is still an hour or so away. I really could use the sunlight. Anything to cut the horrible feeling of dread descending on me. I knew it. I just knew she’d be calling me. I just had prayed she wouldn’t. Not for this reason, at least.
I almost miss it. The street sign is practically hidden by a flowering shrub of some kind. The offending flowering tree looks familiar, and for some insane reason, I actually spend time trying to think of its name before pushing it from my mind. Jessica’s in trouble, and I’m worrying if it’s a Tulip Poplar or a Flowering Bradford.
The houses whip by as I look for numbers. Left side…it’s going to be on the left side of the street. Odd numbers on the left, even on the right. Should be cars out front. Should be—
And then I see it. 1527 Baker Street. A few cars remain parked on the street, lighted faintly by a streetlight half a block away. My brights catch one startled couple making out against the hood of a beat-up Celica. I pull up, roll down my window.
If they’ve seen Jessica, they pretend not to recognize the name. I pull into the driveway across the street and race across the asphalt, shoes slapping loudly in the dark night air. I can hear rock music filtering through the closed doors and windows of 1527 Baker Street, and I recognize Blues Traveler as my hand closes on the door knob. I have just enough time to wonder what college frat party plays a Blues Traveler song before the door crashes in and rebounds off the wall inside.
A few half-asleep, all-drunk revelers stare at me in surprise from various couches, tables, and floors. I hear a couple of startled curses. I yell out Jessica’s name. Dashing from room to room, I see lots of sloppy embraces, several puking partiers, and even a dangerous looking game of 5-Finger Fillet taking place with a kitchen knife and a formerly-smooth mahogany night stand. But no Jessica, anywhere in the house.
I make a complete circuit and end up in the dining room. Scattering cups, CDs, and what I think might be drug paraphernalia, I leap onto the kitchen table, hitting my head on a lamp, which sends the living room and kitchen into a weird frenzy of lunging light and dark shadows as the fixture swings back and forth. Anyone still sober enough to look is staring at me in shock. At least I have their attention.
Like the couple outside, no one admits to knowing Jessica Andrews. I stay up there for a few minutes, yelling for someone, anyone, that can tell me anything, until the catcalls start coming. Yells and jeers assault me as I stalk back out the front door, and I’m almost to the street when I hear a sound behind me. I swing around, hoping it’s Jessica. It’s not. It’s a startled-looking girl of about 20, wearing cutoff jeans and a tight pink Hello Kitty shirt.
She tells me she overheard some guy talking to a Jessica. She’s not sure if it’s the Jessica I’m looking for, but she said they left about 15 or 20 minutes earlier, and she said the guy had mentioned going back to “the lake house.”
It was a long shot, but it was something. Still, the girl hadn’t caught the guy’s name. Just that he was really intense, and that Jessica hadn’t looked too well when they left. It was just close enough to fit. Like I said, it was something, and I was desperate.
Back in my truck, I try Jessica’s cell phone. I’d tried it at least four times before on the trip up to Muddy Waters (before Dad’s call interrupted my thoughts for a few minutes) but I hadn’t received an answer. This time, after four rings, the call goes through. There’s a click, and then silence, but the line is open.
I say her name, and her voice never sounded so sweet.
Nathan? Where are you? I really need you. I’m scared—
I want to scream into the phone: Where are YOU? But I don’t. Hands shaking, I ask if she knows where she is. She sounds bad. Really screwed up. Either drugged or really drunk.
I think I’m at some cabin. I can see a lake out the window.
Bingo. Hello Kitty was right. She had overhead my Jessica. With some guy. Troy, the college basketball wunderkind? Or someone else?
We drove out of town a little way. I—I’m not sure. My head is so fuzzy. I think we turned by a small building, like a bank or something, on the outskirts of town and then headed out—it seemed so far. I don’t know. McCollum? Cormellum? Something.
I realized she was trying to come up with the street name. I told her to think, and then when I was met with silence, I asked if the guy was still with her, and if he had hurt her.
Nathan? Her voice was even more shaky. Nathan? I don’t trust him. He did something to me. He left me here on the couch, and went into the bathroom. Wait…I heard her breath hiss out. He’s coming back. Nathan, please hurry. Oh, sh—
The line goes dead.
I slam on the brakes. I’m just passing a bank: Muddy Waters Community Bank. Really original name. I start to turn, but realize this was still in town, still surrounded by houses and a few businesses. That can’t be right.
Stepping on the gas pedal again, I continue scanning the road on both sides, praying I wouldn’t meet a cop. And then praying I would. Maybe the FBI too. And let’s call out the flipping National Guard while we’re at it. But the now-useless pizza box lid and the open road are my only companions.
I almost miss the second bank. The lack of light, the solid yellow line, and the tall, dark trunks of pines passing by at regular intervals on either side of the road now serve to hypnotize me briefly, and the adrenaline is starting to wear off, reminding me strongly that it was just before 4:00 in the morning.
I actually have to back up a bit because I don’t see the First Interstate Bank sign until I cross too far beyond the intersection to turn at my high rate of travel. But the bank was out on the outskirts of town, alright. Had to be the one.
Within minutes I am pushing 90, the road a blur on either side. A deer deciding to answer the age-old joke and see what lay on the other side of the black stretch of pavement would mean the instant death of both of us. But luckily no animal attempts such a crossing.
This time, I don’t drive by the sign. I even see it in enough time to realize that “McCormick” is what Jessica had been trying to remember in her substance-impaired state.
I take McCormick Road the only direction it will let me, northeast, and deeper into the woods. A helpful sign even points the way to “Clearwater Lake – 8 miles.”
Eight miles later, I am up a creek, sans paddle. I am staring at the moon, reflecting pristinely off the dark water of Clearwater Lake, and I’m also staring at approximately 50 lake cabins dotting the surrounding lakefront. I have very little time left. In fact, I might already be too late. And I have to play a lethal version of the Cup Game.
Round and round they go…which cup is Jessica under? Are you watching closely? For all my attentiveness when it came to everything Jessica, I wasn’t watching closely enough this time, and she’s never felt more out of reach, even during all the parties and surrounded by all the over-attentive guys, then she does right at this moment.
For a minute, my knees feel like giving out. And then, as I lean against the truck, I realize my tired, overwrought brain has missed something important. Most of the lake houses appear abandoned. It’s early May, and many of the owners haven’t yet made it out to the lake for the summer. But nestled part way around the lake, one cabin had visible light blazing from the living room window. It’s almost like a beacon calling to me.
As I drive toward it, I realize that beacon could very well be calling me to my doom, as the sirens from Greek mythology call horny sailors to their doom against the rocks of Anthemoessa.

The Cabin

When I’m closer to the cabin, I cut the engine, turn off the lights, and coast as far as the truck will take me. After that, I’m on foot, sliding out from behind the door as quietly as possible. I don’t shut it, but just push it closed enough to turn off the dome light inside. I’ve watched enough movies to know that much at least.
As I draw closer, ever-fixated on the light shining from the living room window, I see that the curtains have been drawn. Shadows project against the curtains, but none appear to be moving. I hope I’m not too late.
Belatedly, I realize I have no weapon besides my anger to aid me in the coming rescue mission. It might be as simple as going inside and dragging a half-drunk, near-comatose college boy off of her, but something tells me this is more sinister, more dangerous than that. I double back to the truck in search of something more solid than anger.
In the truck bed, I find a shovel. It’s a little unwieldy, especially in tight spaces like hallways, but it will be better than nothing.
When I reach the house, I pause to plan my attack. I have a few options. The front door tries to lure me in, but I instinctively look for a less-obvious entrance. A second-floor deck wraps around to the back of the house, offering inhabitants the chance to sit and look at the lake. Wooden stairs lead up to the deck from the ground, and with the living room windows curtained, and the dark still thick around me for another 30 minutes at least, I feel my best chance for reconnaissance lies with gaining access to the deck undetected. With any luck, a slider door or window further around the house will allow me a careful glance inside.
I take the stairs lightly, very aware of the creak and groan of aging wood beneath my feet. Luckily, only faint whispers of sound escape beneath my tread and are quickly swallowed up in the night.
Hefting the shovel in my left hand, I slide my right against the wood siding of the house as I turn the corner at the top of the stairs and take my first full view of the deck. The sole occupants are two padded reclining chairs and a barbeque grill. The windows on the lake side of the house are covered as well, but a glass sliding door allows access to the deck. It’s not curtained, but the room it opens into (likely a kitchen) is dark.
The sky is just faintly lightning with the impending dawn, but I also know my eyes are well adjusted to the dark. Unless someone is sitting in the unlighted kitchen, I should have the advantage and would probably not be silhouetted too greatly against the sky in the brief moment it would take to slip inside. Probably. Quite a bit hung suspended on that assumption.
Sucking in a breath, I crouch low and approach the slider, peering around the siding to look inside. With the light from the living room, I see that the room is indeed a kitchen, and that it’s empty. Reaching up, I test the slider, and am shocked to see my luck so far is holding. It’s unlocked, and slides quietly open.
It’s at this point that I realize I might be overreacting to the entire thing. I probably should just go around to the front door and knock. After all, the phone went dead, and Jessica seemed scared, but she was also drunk out of her mind. And part of me is just a little fed up about being dragged all this way out into the woods. But something, some innate perceptiveness, is preventing me from doing anything so bold. I fear what I will find, and that fear makes me cautious.
I slip past the slider and pull it partway shut behind me. As the truck door before, I don’t latch it, but at first glance, it would appear shut. Just in case.
I can see most of the living room from the kitchen, and while well-lighted, it’s empty. Still, I hesitate on the edge of shadow, afraid to cross into the light and be revealed. But I can’t stay forever poised between light and dark. Time to make a decision. And since it’s about Jessica, that decision was made for me eight months ago when she asked me for directions. I’ve been waiting to help her again ever since.
Shifting the shovel to my right hand, I stand up and boldly stride into the room, ready to do battle for my girl. Nothing immediately jumps out at me. I glance down the hallway to my left, which undoubtedly leads to the front door and a set of stairs to the lower level, and as I do, I think I hear a noise coming from downstairs.
I quickly duck into the hallway, past a dark room that could be some sort of office, and am just rounding the corner to descend the stairs by the door when I catch a reflection in the glass panes of the front door.
Since the light filters in from the living room, I’m back-lit, and reflections are mere shadow. It’s enough to see that someone is suddenly looming up behind me, undoubtedly from the office I just passed.
Even as I react, I am not afraid that I’m about to brain my Jessica with a shovel. The body size in that reflection tells me it’s male, and big. I put all I can into the shovel, swinging it quickly up and around.
With a loud clanging sound, it rebounds off the banister railing beside me – exactly why I didn’t want a shovel in a narrow space – but still manages to clip a glancing blow to the man’s forehead. As he crumples to the ground like so much dead weight, I recognize him immediately. It’s my dad.

The Swerve

I hear voices. My eyes crack open. My head hurts. My tongue even feels a little thick. I’m in the living room, lying on a couch. My hands are tied behind me. My feet are similarly lashed. Faint light is beginning to filter in through the curtains, but it was already near dawn, so I can’t have been out too long.
I try to piece together what happened. I realized I had just brained my own father, who by all rights should be nowhere near here, and when I had instinctively crouched down beside him, I had heard a creak from the stairs beside me. Too late, I reached for my shovel and began to turn, when something hard crashed down on my head.
Not the greatest end to my rescue mission, but karma probably decided I had the blow to the head coming after just delivering one to my father, however much I felt like he deserved it for largely being non-existent in my life growing up.
He’s awake.
That voice is tantalizingly familiar, but it’s coming from behind my head, somewhere in the kitchen. I try to squirm, try to shift my feet around, and succeed on turning part way onto my belly.
You shouldn’t have hit him so hard.
Unfortunately, I knew that voice without turning around, but I see her anyway, leaning against the kitchen table, her arms folded.
He’s got a hard head, like his dad.
Troy Pavlic sneers at me from around the beer he’s holding to his lips. He takes a chug and then sets it on the table. Swaggering into the room, he sits down on a love seat facing my own couch, and it’s at that point I notice my dad, sitting in a rocking chair in the corner, hands and feet tied to the armrests and chair legs. His head is slumped over, blood trickling from his forehead, but he twitches. He’s alive. The shovel leans against the wall next to Troy, a mute reminder of how he ended up in that chair. I’m trying to feel badly about giving him a goose egg, but still haven’t drummed up quite enough of the requisite emotions. Still, it was a relief to see him breathing. However frustrated I was with him, I wasn’t ready to commit patricide.
Jessica joins Troy in the living room, perching on the other side of the love seat, nervous, but trying to appear unconcerned.
Up until this point, everything has felt unreal, like a dream. I’ve been on the move constantly for almost two hours now, and haven’t had the chance to process. Suddenly, like the frame of a movie snapping sharply into focus, I’m here. I’m present. In the room, in the flesh. And I don’t like the hyper-aware feeling I’m getting. Down the rabbit hole, Alice.
“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you, Nathan,” Troy declares with the air of someone who thinks they’ve got you all figured out. “Even when Jess here is all over me, and hasn’t shown much more interest in you than in a ball of lint in the dryer, you still think you are her knight in shining armor, running to her rescue.” He laughs, and his laugh sounds like sandpaper being drawn across a board. “What an idiot.”
I run my tongue over my lips to wet them. They’re suddenly as dry as the desert.
“Why?” I croak out. “Why are you doing this?” A wave of dizziness flows over me, and I slump back a bit on the sofa.
Troy leans forward, snapping his fingers.
“Focus, Natie-boy. Your daddy’s the real ploy here, not you. We just needed you to bat clean up. No pun intended, by the way. You really swung for the fences with that shovel.”
The whole time, I can’t keep my eyes off Jessica. How could I? How could I misjudge her so completely? Yes, she was a party girl, and I even figured she might get hooked into the wrong crowd, but this…this seemed serious. Deadly serious.
Perhaps sensing my thoughts, Troy draped an arm casually around Jessica. Through a haze, I heard him say, “I couldn’t have done it without Jessica, here. When my dad met your dad over a year ago, I knew I could use him to do what my dad didn’t feel inclined to do – give me some mad money, as you kids these days are calling it.”
So Troy’s dad must have been a client my dad was responsible for waiting on hand and foot. That means Troy’s dad has money, and apparently Troy wanted a piece of the pie. But his dad wasn’t ready to open the checkbook and break out the gold-plated pen just yet. So Troy found other methods to get what he wanted. Methods named Jessica.
“That’s right, lover boy.” Troy’s sarcastic comment interrupted my thoughts. “Jessica here batted her eyes and flattered your dad with all kinds of attention. You see, on one of their many golf trips, and fortuitously, one in which I was also in attendance, your dad starts joking with my dad about all the women he’s nailed. Don’t know if it’s news to you or not, but your dad’s a bit of a rake. Likes a little action on the side, if you know what I mean. Add a few beers, and his tongue loosened up enough to start chumming up to my dad and sharing intimate details. Jess took a little convincing, but eventually she saw the light. And the dollar signs.”
“Fast forward a bit to nine months ago, and we realize we have most of the details to make a little money off your dad. Pictures of him meeting Jessica at a motel. Even a tape recording of a rather intimate phone call. So we set up a meeting. Turns out we used the wrong pressure point at first. We threatened to send the evidence to your mom, but he just laughed in our faces. That’s when he told us about the lake cabin here. Apparently your mom not only knew about his little affairs, but she was well aware of the lake cabin he used to, um, entertain his guests. She only stayed with the loser because he was the bread winner and she wanted to take care of you. Plus, he was gone so much for work that she didn’t have to be around him too much. Ain’t it nice what Mommy will do for her little wonder?”
I should be in shock. And maybe I am a little, but I’m also making hay while the sun shines, because while he talks, I’m working feverishly. But really carefully. I’m flexing and relaxing my hands, trying to see if the knots will loosen. I read about it once in a Hardy Boys book. What can I say? When I was little, I loved to read, and detective stories were right up my alley. Too bad it doesn’t work that way in real life. All I’d succeeded in doing so far was rubbing my wrists raw. The rope used to tie them together feels as tight as ever.
Troy sighs theatrically and I realize he’s living the role of every cliché movie villain he’s ever seen on the screen, and really vamping it up for his audience. Such as it was.
“With that angle out of the picture, we realized what he cared more about – his image at work. Using contacts my dad had made, we found out who your dad’s boss was and let a little rumor slip out about an indiscretion with a young college girl. That did the trick, as your dad here got called before the board of directors. He convinced them it was a malicious rumor started by a competitor, but after we sent pictures to him at work, he broke, and we began draining money from him.”
My dad groans softly at this point. I had almost forgotten he was in the room. We all look over, in time to see his eyes flutter open.
“Well, hello, Mr. Miller.” Troy flips my dad a sarcastic little wave. “Nice of you to join us. We were just filling your son in on how we were riding your gravy train straight to the bank.”
I wonder how many movies Troy’s seen. Usually, about this time, as the villain stupidly fills the hero in on his dastardly plan, the hero uses the time to escape and then thwart the villain, all while allowing the script writers time to give the audience some exposition or background. I flex my muscles and pull hard on the ropes, to no avail. Apparently movies really aren’t like real life. Except for the exposition part.
Up until now, Jessica’s been sitting quietly on the love seat, letting Troy ramble while avoiding making eye contact with me. But now she breaks in.
“Come on, Troy,” she says, still refusing to look my way. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Troy frowns at her.
“Chill, Jess,” he says. “Don’t you want Nathan here to find out what his role in this little charade will be? After all, he has the best part. He’s our Get Out Of Jail Free card.”
Jessica stands up. “Whatever,” she says. “I’m done sitting here. It’s almost morning, and the longer we wait, the longer we give people to discover us.”
She walks into the kitchen, picks up Troy’s beer, and takes a swig. Troy watches her drink, and then shrugs.
“Women,” Troy says, shrugging his shoulders. He looks at me and winks tauntingly in a fake show of camaraderie. “Impatient little things. But good in the sack. Am I right or what?”
Too bad my hands are tied behind my back. He can’t see me flipping him off.
“All right,” he says. “We’ll keep some things from Nathan here, but you need to know the best part. When your dad started to get cold feet, and threatened to just stop paying us and face the music, we realized it was time to wrap things up. I knew we couldn’t leave him alive. He’d seen us, and could identify us. We’d be running for years. That wasn’t what I wanted to do, and we really didn’t have the accumulated cash for a long stretch of running. Your dad wasn’t that rich, and I bet a lot of the money he gave us even came right from his clients’ accounts.
“We had to clean up loose ends. Eddie—sorry, Mr. Miller here—mentioned the tough time he’d had with his son, so you became our little scapegoat. We just had to convince him to meet us at his lake cabin for one final payout. Sensing the finish line was in sight to this little scheme, he readily agreed.
“And then you show up, swinging that shovel like a crack-high mortician. Way I see it, you catch Daddy up here with a girl, go ballistic, and bash his head in with a shovel from your truck. Then, realizing what you’ve done, you find Daddy’s handgun, which he always keeps in a drawer by his bed up here, and put it in your mouth.”
To demonstrate his point, Troy pulls a revolver from his pocket and waves it around. I’ve never seen it before and didn’t think my dad even knew how to shoot one, but then again, I realize I didn’t really know my dad at all. Surprising how your eyes are opened as you get older. Your parents really aren’t the perfect people you thought they were, and with it comes the disturbing realization that you won’t be perfect to your kids either. I can understand why some people choose not to have any. Kids, that is. Parents, you don’t much have a choice about.
“Nice and tidy,” Troy says, standing up off the love seat. “Game’s over. You lose.” Suddenly, he whips the shovel in a vicious arc that ends with a fleshy smack against my dad’s already-bloody forehead. The rocking chair tips backward, rebounds off the wall, and then flips forward, dumping my dad, still tied to the chair, on his head.
Leaning down, Troy pokes him with the shovel. In the kitchen, I see that Jessica’s turned away from the scene. Troy smiles. He gestures for Jessica, snapping his fingers when she doesn’t see him.
“Hey,” he says loudly. “Get in here. I need some help cutting him loose. He’s out like a light and heavier than an elephant.”
Jessica reluctantly joins him as they wrestle my unconscious father out of the chair and onto the floor. Leaving him on the carpet, Troy throws the love seat cushions on the ground nearby. Then, he kicks an end table, upsetting a lamp decorated with hand-painted deer and elk scenes.
“Gotta look like a bit of a struggle took place here,” he says. “Killing someone with a shovel isn’t as easy as with a gun, after all.” He looks at Jessica, who is once again wincing and turning away.
“Look, chica, if you don’t have the stomach for it, why don’t you just go in the kitchen,” Troy says. “I don’t need you puking all over the couch. I’ll be done in a minute.”
Instead, Jessica goes out on the deck, shutting the slider door behind her.
Troy brushes the hair out of his eyes and then hefts the shovel again.
“Got a good view?” he asks cruelly. “Good. Wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
Raising the shovel over his head, he brings it down on the back of my dad’s head.
The next few minutes both fly by and travel in slow motion. When he’s done, he’s panting profusely and the shovel is slick with blood. I feel sick, but I can’t turn away. I want to, but I can’t. For some reason, I feel like I’m destined to see this through to the bitter end. I just can’t see how that end is going to be anything other than my death, which is a less than ideal coda to my life story. I’ve made no headway with the ropes binding my hands and feet, and now there’s only one piece left in this little puzzle. Me.

The Chance

You see it in movies and you read it in books, but it’s never the same when it actually happens to you. The coursing shot of adrenaline racing through you when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun. The feeling of intense fear knowing that you are probably about to die. And then the crazed lunatic suddenly pulls a knife, and advances toward you. That just makes it all better.
I hear myself make a false attempt at bravado. It’s the first thing I’ve said since entering the cabin, and I can’t say I want to die and have it written on my tombstone, but I also don’t want to go out looking wimpy.
“Really, Troy?” I ask. “You really think you need to pull not only a gun, but also a knife, on a guy bound hand and foot and lying on a couch? Ever heard of overkill?”
Not my finest moment, and certainly not the snappiest comeback. But that’s me –
throwing corny puns in the face of danger. It’s kind of an escape mechanism I think. Too bad it doesn’t work on ropes.
See? I’m doing it again…
“Shut up, Nate,” he tells me. Again with the Nate thing. “Right now, if I wanted you dead, I’d use the shovel like I did with your old man. I’m cutting your feet loose so I don’t have to carry you across the room, if that’s okay.”
Suddenly I realize this is likely my one and only chance to make a break for it. Wait until he frees my feet and then—
I swing out with my foot suddenly, catching him full in the face. He reels backward, clutching a bleeding nose, and curses loudly.
“Jessica,” he yells, “Get the f—“
Whatever he was about to yell is cut off when both feet land on his chest as I leap off the couch. With my hands tied behind my back, my center of gravity is off. I stagger forward, almost trip over my dad lying dead on the floor in his own blood, and track a set of bloody footprints toward the sliding door.
Jessica, hearing the commotion, ducks back inside in time to see me heading straight toward her. I’m not stopping, but suddenly I see in her eyes that she’s not even going to try to prevent my escape. It’s almost like she wants me to get out. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but suddenly I’m hit by the realization that I don’t want to leave her here. That maybe it’s not too late for her, either.
Even as I falter, I realize my mistake. I’ve turned my back on Troy, and he is far from out. I feel the shovel strike me square in the back, point first. I crash to the floor even as the shovel clatters beside me.
Feeling the rush of pain and blood across my back as I roll over onto the new wound, I push myself up into a sitting position, grabbing for the shovel behind my back. I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to do with my hands roped behind me, but I would feel better with the shovel in my hands than in his.
With a roar, Troy launches himself at me, both hands outstretched. For the moment, he’s forgotten his gun. That’s good. I find the shovel, lose it again, and then get a good grip. But my nearly numb hands betray me as I try to raise it up. The metal shovel end catches on the kitchen table leg, and the shovel clatters backward to the ground. Then Troy is on top of me, his fists battering my face and head.
My arms are still pinioned behind my back, and I can’t offer any defense aside from trying to roll my head away from the blows. Suddenly, I’m looking squarely back at Jessica as she stands horrified above me.
I’m sorry. Her perfect lips form the words. Even after all she’s done, including the likelihood that she never loved me at all, I can’t help it. I still love her.
I try to sit up one last time, and Troy’s meaty fist crashes into my temple. And then—

The End

I’m getting slapped. No thank you, Mom, I don’t want to go to school yet. The slaps continue. Then I hear cursing. Mommy’s very angry. Except it isn’t Mommy.
“Wake up, sleepy head,” the voice says, and of course it’s Troy. The bad dream continues.
I open my eyes. One seems to be swelling, and it’s mostly stuck shut. I’m still lying on the kitchen floor. The sunlight is now streaming in the sliding glass door, and somehow it warms me to the core, despite the desperate situation I now face. Once again I’m reminded of the feeling that I have a reason for being here.
Apparently it’s to serve as Troy’s punching bag.
“You were a very bad boy,” Troy said. “And you almost screwed up our delicately prepared plans. How can we set you up for killing Daddy Dearest if you’re… NOT… HERE.”
He punctuates the last few words with a few swift kicks to my side. I barely feel it. I’m running on adrenaline still, and something else. I see the truth behind what will happen here today, and it’s calming in its terrible simplicity.
With effort, I role over, and get to my knees. Troy backs up warily, suddenly remembering the gun in his own hand. He points it at me.
“Just hold on, Nathan,” he says. “Let’s not be rash.”
But he needs me. He knows he can’t shoot me in the chest. For that, he’ll have to wait until point blank range, or crime scene investigators will know it’s not a suicide. At the same time, he’s moved between me and the door, and with my hands tied behind my back, I can’t drive my truck out of here, even though they have left the keys in my right side pocket. I can feel the lump of them through my jeans.
I’m shaky, unsteady, and sore from my various beatings, but I get to my feet. I turn my head to look at Jessica, who’s now seated on the couch I lay on like a Christmas ham just a few short minutes before. Feels like hours, though.
“Jessica,” I say. “Have you thought this through? A guy like Troy here, he doesn’t like witnesses. And his little plan requires an important detail – one he apparently hasn’t mentioned to you.”
Troy shifts the gun, moves a little closer. I step away from him.
“For this to work, I supposedly catch my dad with another woman – you – and in a fit of anger, beat my dad to death with a shovel before tragically killing myself. But what about the other woman? Where is she in all this? You can’t just disappear. That won’t satisfy the cops. They’ll be looking for the other woman, and I’m willing to bet someone, somewhere, has seen the two of you together, and when this hits the news…Well, let’s just say you’ll still be running. Which is what Troy said he didn’t want to do.”
I trail off here. I’m playing with fire, and I know it. But the final piece has clicked into place, and I know my lines. I know the role I’m to play in this little swerve. It’s the final show, the last act, the curtain call, but I press on.
“Troy can’t shoot me in the chest – he has to do that close up for forensics to buy it. But he doesn’t have to shoot you at close range. After all, maybe I beat up my dad, go get the gun, and then shoot you in the back as you run for the door. Or maybe I shoot you right here as you’re sitting in shock on the couch, numb from the death of your lover. Either way, Jessica, wake up, because you aren’t leaving this house alive.”
The mounting horror on her face shows me that possibility had never crossed her mind. Ultimately, she wasn’t as good at this as she thought. And it was going to get her killed.
Behind me, Troy chuckles. Even applauds.
“Very good,” he says. But now he’s closer. Too close. He can shoot me now. His gun presses into the side of my face from behind. I’m out of time, the final song is playing, and the credits are about to roll.
Looking Jessica squarely in the eye, I mouth the words so he can’t hear me.
Run. Take my keys and run.
A tear wells up in her eye. It’s not a kiss, but it’ll do.
I love you.
She knows. Maybe she loves me too. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter now.
I drive my bound hands straight back, right into Troy’s crotch. I hear him gasp, step back, and begin to fold over in pain. Raising my right foot, I slam it back into his kneecap, and hear it pop. He may shoot me, but he won’t be running for awhile. He screams in pain, and to Jessica, it might as well be a starter’s pistol. She bolts off the couch, racing for the front door.
My bound hands dive down toward my hips, and twisting to the left, I can just slip my fingers into my front right pocket. I hook the keys, suddenly thankful for the nerdy Boba Fett Star Wars keychain attached to it, and yank them free.
Behind me, Troy is getting up onto one knee. He can still shoot her in the back, still maybe salvage some of this.
Turning to the right to gain leverage, I wind up and throw her the keys, snapping my wrists as they clear my right hip. The keys sail through the air, and for a brief moment, time stops. Troy, still up on one knee, follows the arc the keys take. I stand there, willing them into Jessica’s hands. And Jessica? She makes a perfect catch and spares one final glance at me.
“Go!” I shout. And then turn just in time to see Troy level his gun point blank at her back and tighten on the trigger.
I dive as the gun goes off, feel the impact as the bullet rips into my chest, and fall heavily to the floor. The front door slams open behind me and I hear her footsteps on the walk outside. But I can’t see her. I try to turn around, to catch one last glimpse of her, but for some reason I can’t get my legs to work.
Please. I think. Let me see her one last time. Just let me—
The burning in my chest increases. It’s Troy. He’s leaning on me, pulling me to face him.
No. No! Let me just turn over.
He sneers at me, levels the gun at my face. His plan is in shambles, he can’t move faster than a crawl, and undoubtedly the police will be here shortly. Even in Muddy Waters, the police will be here in sufficient force to take out one man with maybe four or five shots left in the revolver.
I draw my strength and turn to look him square in the face.
“Better save one,” I whisper. “Just one for yourself.”
And then I’m fading. Not so fast that I don’t hear the bang, but I do wonder why I didn’t feel the second bullet. And then Troy is lying beside me. I briefly wonder what color they’ll change the carpet to before the next occupants move in? I suggest a dark brown color. Doesn’t show stains.
I think about Jessica. I think about that song about beautiful girls and never working out. So here I am. Dying for a girl I knew, but never really knew. But I’m thankful because at least I knew her at all. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll use this chance to start over. Maybe that was my destiny, from the moment I met her. To give her another chance. Yes, I’m a sap, but that’s just how you are when you’re in—


Read more!

Short Story: The Room

The Room
by BW Koontz

I am trapped in this room. Four walls. Bare. Stark. Gleaming white like picked-clean bones.
I do not know how long I’ve been here; how long contained within its embrace.
Scanning for egress, I look for escape. But I cannot find it. No portal. No freedom. Trapped in this room.

Oh, but there are other ways to leave.
Sometimes I flit along the tide of memory, but it is a time-dimmed tide, black and choppy. I cannot resist the call, but ever elusive, it fades before me. All too soon, I am returned to the never-ending tick of time within this room.
Like an off-beat metronome, I feel my heart. Counting. Ever counting, but to what? What good is time with nothing to spend it on? What use is precious currency with no wares to purchase? Still I lie here trapped within this room.
I think I can leave any time I want.
I imagine standing, wrapping my single white sheet around and around, until it becomes a rope. Then I could leave. I could wrap it around my neck and leave forever. But there is nothing to attach my key, my freedom rope, to. I would have a rope with no purpose. A key with no lock. I do not think my strength and stomach strong enough for that gruesome task anyway.
But I must leave.
I must be heard. I must be seen. I must be noticed.
My drawn mouth falls open in a scream, but it is silent. Only the walls hear. And they mock me in their silence.
I reach out. My right hand just grazes the wall. Watching my fingers slide along the surface, I picture leaving trails, as a dragonfly dips across the clear, glassy surface of an evening pool. Envisioning ever-widening ripples, I wonder if they could travel outward, away from this room, and somewhere, someone sitting down to dinner would see the ripples along their kitchen wall. They would trace the wall waves back, back, to the source. And they would free me from my prison. But the wall is cool and still beneath my touch.
Perhaps the window? I turn my head. I watch the sun walk soundless and ephemeral across the hard white floor. Where sunlight inside beams, a window lies beyond. But out of my immediate vision it remains. Taunted by something I cannot define, I strain to move, to seek a vision of freedom, however fleet. As if on gossamer strands, a window slides across the corner of my sight. Ever elusive, it begins to slip away again, and I struggle to remain turned toward its life-giving eyes. I can see a scrap of blue, and I almost weep with joy.
Precious sky. How long has it been since I’ve even stood beneath your canopy? To feel the wind and hear it whispering in my hair, to see the massive yet weightless ships of the sky travel white and full across your tapestry, and to find the horizon clad in stockings of mountains, valleys, seas and trees. It has been too long. The thought strengthens me.
I grip my bedding, prepare my assault. I will break the chains of cloth that weigh me down. I will surge against my own weakness and fear. I will…
But time marches on. It stops for no one. Even me. Especially me. Trapped within these inescapable, unbreachable walls. But I can leave. I only need the strength. I yet live. But living is not enough. I need help. I need a hand, a comforting word. I need time. Time to stop, time to reverse, time to correct my life.
The memories again. Still fleeting, they dance away from my outstretched fingers. I know I regret something. I know I hunger to make it right. But there is no time left. No will left. And no way out of this room.
The sun has long-departed now, that evanescent companion. And now the night has come again. Hello darkness, my old friend. Somehow more faithful than the light, at least within this room. More hungry, more eager.
The darkness does not ease the torture. I cannot see them fully in the deepening gloom, but I know them well, those four walls. If sun my companion and darkness my friend, the walls at least are my constant, maddening sentinels, standing guard around me.
Quiet. So very quiet. During the waking hours, I can easily imagine noise. I think I hear it beyond the confines of this four-cornered shell. I can almost grasp it. Almost trap it in the deep tunnels of my ears. But at night it is so quiet. Even my imagination does not allow me the faint glimmering of hopeful noise. Now I know no one is coming. No knight in shining armor awaits outside.
And yet I wonder. Why not? Surely someone cares that I am missing. Has no one searched for me? Will no one tried to breach my cocoon? Would they, if a butterfly emerged? Perhaps that is it. I am nothing but a moth. Worthless, cast aside. The world has given up. I think that must be it…
And yet I wait. Still trapped, still trying, still begging. Waiting for the sun to return. Searching for hope.


Outside the room, there is life. Bustling activity. Many hands, many feet, many mouths, many hearts, many ears. All ignore the occupant within. There is a door, labeled “Room 104: Jefferson” in neat black printing, but none use it. There is hope, in the form of a chair near the bed within, and an empty table waiting to fulfill its purpose. But none offer flowers, or cards, or a listening ear to brighten the room.
Maybe the clay jars are too busy. Maybe the vessels are already too full. Or maybe too dry. Nothing left to give. Whatever the reason, time itself does not wait for those trapped within the walls. Nor does it offer succor. For time is something the occupants have spent too much of already. Their allotment is almost used; their quota nearly full. It is up to the hands, the feet, the mouths, the hearts, and the ears to provide the time when they themselves no longer freely draw from it.
For eventually, we will all spend time within the room.

Read more!

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Read the New York Post today?

Apparently the New York Post has run an article today revealing a pretty major change to a well-loved superhero's status quo, and it has more than a few people upset. It involves the Marvel character Spider-Man, so if you don't want to know, don't read on and don't pick up today's New York Post.

What is revealed is that Spider-Man, who has long kept his human identity a secret, reveals that he is Peter Parker before members of the press, pulling off his mask and saying, "My name is Peter Parker and I've been Spider-Man since I was 15 years old. Any questions?"

As soon as that detail hit the web, fans blew up. Comments like "I'm never going the movies or reading a Spider-Man comic again" were very common this morning. Honestly, I don't get it. I'm as big a Spider-Man fan as the next guy, having read a lot of his comics growing up and having seen (and loved) both movies. I'll be first in line to see SM3. So I say, if you think for one minute that Peter revealing his identity goes against his character, you don't know a thing about him.

Remember his mantra? The one about great power giving great responsibility? The reason he unmasks himself is because in the comic in question (Civil War #2), the government tells superheroes to register their identities because they can be as big a threat as any villain with all their web-shooting, hammer-throwing, city-destroying abilities.

Personally, I think DC (the Washington one, not the Distinguished Competition) would have tired a lot sooner than this of having the Hulk smash through yet another city on one of his rampages. The legislation would actually have happened about a year (or less) after the first superhero was zapped with a mind control ray or went amuck and threw a few cars into a building. That's just the country and times we live in. So the registration part makes sense. And Peter's obedience to such legislation also does. He's always been a straight arrow, an honest Joe. That's what makes him likeable. And the fact that he does think that he has a responsibility to do what's right means that he will reveal his identity to the public. It's that simple. He'd be first in line to comply.

Now, from a story-telling perspective, this is ripe with possibilities. Even if you've never read the comic, and have just seen the movies, you know that his employer at the Daily Bugle, cigar-chomping J Jonah Jameson, likes Peter Parker but HATES Spider-Man. Can you imagine the heart attack JJJ suffered when he saw that announcement on the news? Or what about the immediate danger this puts wife Mary Jane and his Aunt May in? Suddenly every enemy Spider-Man has knows how to hurt him - through his family.

At the very least, shut up on the whining and wait and see what happens before you decide you hate all things Marvel and Spider-Man, and give some writers the chance to explore what that means to the web-shooting superhero. Or, you could just realize that we're talking about a fictional character in a fictional universe and just grow up already.

The picture below, taken from the last page of Civil War #2, and showing SM reveal his identity to the press, was drawn by Steve McNiven.

Spider-Man Unmasked


Read more!

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

The Music Genome Project

So I heard about this great website today - the Music Genome Project (located at www.pandora.com). The site prompts you to enter an artist, and then brings up a radio station that starts playing artists that are similar in style. The trick is that it doesn't just use the typical "rock" "pop" "rap" tags, but actually analyzes the song structure, vocal tendencies, and tempo of the group you put in and recommends artists with similar attributes. I put in some fairly obscure artists and was pleased to see the results were actually very similar to the group I had chosen.

Give them a try by either clicking on the link to the side or by typing a music choice in the box below the archives directory on the right.

Read more!

Friday, June 09, 2006

If I had a million dollars...

I was watching a television show recently when this Barenaked Ladies song … (wait, wait, I know – it sounds risqué. The name of the group is, but the song, like all the songs they write, is not at all risqué. They just came up with a weird name) Where was I? Oh yeah, the song.

The Barenaked Ladies song “If I Had A Million Dollars” was played during a scene in this show, and the lyrics to it started me thinking. What if we did have a million dollars, tomorrow, waiting in our bank accounts when we woke up? How would that change our lives? What would we do differently?

The way the song goes, the singer starts out saying he’d buy his girl a house, nice furniture for it, a fur coat (but not a real fur coat, that’s mean, he tells us) and a fancy car. However, as the song continues, he starts to deviate into more unusual territory, telling her he wants to use some of it to build a tree fort in the yard, bring in a mini fridge, and stock it with pre-wrapped sausages and Kraft dinners. Not exactly what we’d think of when we start writing those first few checks. But it made me wonder. What exactly would I do with it?

The easy things come to mind – pay off the house (scratch that – buy a nicer house, on a lake), buy a new truck, put money away for the kids. But then it occurs to me. Take the taxes out of it, and that leaves me with about $650,000. Buy a nice new house on a lake – in today’s market, a shack near Shantytown Lake would run me $500,000+. Buy a new truck - $35,000. Money for kids’ college – at least $50,000 a piece, and probably more. Suddenly, realistically, I’d be in debt again. So is it worth it? Would it make me a better person? Would it make my marriage stronger?

Now what if I took that million dollars, and instead of buying a new house, I used it to buy materials for a huge tree fort, big enough for my wife, our two kids, and me? What if I stocked it with fun foods to eat and got everyone up there to spend the night under the stars? Would that make my marriage, and family relationship, stronger?

What if instead of buying a new truck, I used some of the money to take my family on a trip to see new places and learn new things? What if instead of a fur coat, I used the money to help a poor family buy coats for their kids? Would it make me feel better now that I’d become more aware of my surroundings, learned something new, and helped someone out in need?

The surprising thing is, we don’t need a million dollars to accomplish those things. You don’t even need a tree fort. You just need a yard, maybe a blanket, and your family. You don’t need an exotic destination or 5-star hotel. You just need your car, a road map, and a Saturday. You don’t need a mink coat. You just need $100 to go to an outlet mall and pick up some winter coats for that family next door. In fact, if you can’t find a coat for that price or can’t afford the $100, use whatever money you can spare to buy the family some groceries. It’s easier to feel warm with a full belly.

Too often, we use the excuse of money to keep us from doing what’s really important. We think, “If I just had more money, I could make a better life for my family.” Really? Latrell Sprewell, an NBA basketball player, made a well-publicized complaint a while back that on his current salary he couldn’t afford to feed his kids. His 2004-05 annual salary? $14.6 million. That’s for one year, people. His total contract, paid out over 5 years, is $61.9 million, and yet he can’t feed his kids. The lesson here is that no matter how much you make, it’s never enough. Never enough to buy happiness. Never enough to buy peace of mind.

We can’t earn enough money to get happiness, but we can BE happy. We can make a difference in someone else’s life. We can be closer to our family. It’s in our point of view. Not our position, our annual salary, or our square footage, but in what we do with the time we’ve been given – and make no mistake: a minute is much harder to earn back than a dollar is.

Take a minute to call a friend or family member just to say “Hi!” Next weekend, plan a road trip. Next month, find a family that needs some help. You’ll be instantly rich in your minimal wage.

Here’s the kicker – at the end of that song, the singer says, “If I had a million dollars, I’d buy your love…If I had a million dollars, I’d be rich.” I think that’s what a lot of us would be doing – buying our family’s love. And ultimately, all we could say is, “I’m rich.” But is that really important? Or is eating a Kraft dinner with your family under the stars more important than any expensive candlelight dinner at a fancy restaurant? I don’t know about you, but given my choice of food and mood lighting, I’ll take Kraft dinners and starlight.

Read more!