Dark Debts (18 page)

“Coffee. How did anyone ever come up with the idea for coffee? Who said, ‘I know what! Let's take these little beans and dry them in the sun. Then we'll grind them up and pour hot water over them and make a drink. But it'll taste like hell, so we'll mix it with cream and sugar until we can stand to drink it . . . Of course, we'll have to wait for it to cool off first.' ”

Jack laughed.

“You like that? I've got a million. Who looked at an artichoke and decided there was anything inside worth the trouble it would take to get to it? And why is it that we put a man on the moon before anyone ever thought of squeeze-bottle ketchup?”

“Are all your existential dilemmas food related?”

“No. I'd like to know what God has against famous musicians in small airplanes. And why people think pushing the elevator button again will make the elevator show up faster.”

“You mean it doesn't?” he said, still laughing. He could tell she was enjoying his laughter and didn't want it to stop. Neither did he. It had been a long time since he'd really laughed. It felt good.

“Here's my personal favorite,” she said. “Why will people only elect a president who's never had therapy? ‘We're sorry, you've explored your emotions, you're disqualified. We only allow a repressed individual with a lot of internalized rage to have his finger on the button.' ”

“Okay,” he said, surrendering to the urge to chime in. “Here's one I've always wondered about: ‘Four out of five dentists surveyed recommend sugarless gum . . .' What did that fifth guy say? ‘Rot your teeth out, what the hell do I care?' ”

She laughed. Her entire face lit up, and the light in her eyes danced mischievously. On impulse, he reached down and took her hand. It startled her so much, she stopped laughing. She let her eyes meet his, and they sat like that for a moment without speaking.

“Will you tell me now?” she asked, suddenly serious.

“Tell you what?”

“About the armed robbery.” Reality came crashing down on him.

“Why?” he asked. “Were we having too much fun?”

“I just can't imagine it, that's all. You just don't seem . . .”

“What?”

“I don't know. Like the armed-robbery type.”

“Known a lot of armed robbers, have you?”

“All right. Never mind.”

“No, I'll tell you. It's just . . . a stupid story. It's embarrassing.”

She leaned closer, which amused him. He hadn't meant he was embarrassed for the
waiter
to hear it.

“My brothers and I used to rob convenience stores . . . recreationally. You know. Some guys play football. Anyway, this was one night, about a year or so after Ethan died. I don't know where Tallen was, but I was alone and I was just driving around, and I found this two-pump gas station and general store out in the middle of nowhere. I was bored . . .”

“And you just happened to have a gun in the car?”

“As fate would have it,” he said, smiling. “Nothing major. Something in the Saturday night special family. I stuck it in my pocket and ambled in. There was absolutely nobody there except me and the cashier. I got kind of depressed right away because the cashier was this girl, about my age. Long blond hair. Really cute. But it's kind of hard to flirt with someone and point a gun at her at the same time.”

Randa laughed.

“No,” he said, becoming serious. “I looked at her and I felt bad because I knew I was going to scare her. But I also knew I wasn't going to hurt her, so I figured she'd be scared for a few minutes and then have a great story to tell for the rest of her life; it wasn't really a bad deal. Anyway, I told her to give me whatever was in the cash register, and she said all the money was in a cash box under the counter. I said fine, I didn't care where it came from. She reached under the counter and came up with a sawed-off shotgun.”

Randa's eyes got wide. “What did you do?”

“What could I do? I wasn't going to shoot her, and she sure as hell was going to shoot me.”

He laughed, remembering. He'd never told this story to anyone. It wasn't really such a bad story, now that he heard it.

“She made me go to the pay phone and call the cops and tell them to come get me. Made me use my own dime.”

“And then?”

He shrugged. “Then I did ten years for it. That part's not funny.”

Her smile faded.

“Don't stop smiling,” he said. “I love your smile.”

She smiled again, and then she leaned in and kissed him. He kissed her back, and when he came up for air, the only thing he could think to say was “You don't know me.”

“Well, I'm trying to remedy that.”

“I like your remedy.”

“I don't want to go back to LA.”

“I don't want you to.”

But how can I ask you to stay here and watch me sink further and further into God-knows-what?

“What
do
you want to do?” he asked, letting himself temporarily off the hook.

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“I want to go to the front desk, take out my American Express card, get a nice suite on the twenty-second floor, and stay here tonight. With you.”

He couldn't speak.

“Does that scare you to death?” she asked, though he was sure she already knew the answer.

“Yes.”

“Okay. What do
you
want?”

“I want you to hurry back with the key.”

T
here was a warm wind blowing, gentle against his face. He and Randa were lying on a blanket on a beach, watching the sunset, a bottle of champagne between them. They took turns drinking from the bottle, giggling. He kissed her.

“AWAY . . .”

He pulled back. The damned voice again.

“
AWAY . . .
” The woman's voice; a throaty whisper that traveled on the breeze.

“AWAY . . .”

He stood up, looking around. Beyond the beach, the sand disappeared into a thick forest. He knew, somehow, that the voice was coming from there.

“AWAY . . . AWAY . . .”

He got up and followed it, determined to confront his tormentor. The woods were dense. The sun was blocked by the trees, and it was as dark as night.

He stopped short as he saw her up ahead. She was sitting on a log, waiting for him. It was the blond girl—the one from before. She was laughing at him now, a hollow, evil laugh.

“This is the house they built for Jack,” she said with scornful glee.

“I'm sick of this!” he screamed. “Go play your games with someone else!”

She just kept laughing. His anger amused her. Her laughter infuriated him.

“I mean it!” he yelled. “Get the hell out of my life!”

She stopped laughing, but retained a taunting smirk.

“What life?” she asked. “Your girlfriend? The one who's sleeping with you because she was in love with your brother?”

He reached for the first thing he could find—a thick branch that had fallen off a tree—and started for her. She watched him coming and began laughing again. Her laughter and her lack of fear fueled his anger until he was lost in it. He lifted the branch and brought it down on her head with all his strength. The force of it knocked her off the log. She staggered a couple of steps; he brought the branch down on the back of her head, knocking her to the ground, her face buried in the dirt and pine needles. Consumed by his anger, he continued to pummel her until his fury was spent and he was too tired to go on. He dropped to the ground and gasped for air. He looked at her still form on the ground beside him and didn't feel any remorse. She deserved it for making him think he was crazy all this time. It took him a moment to realize he was covered in blood, and then the enormity of what he had done started to sink in.

Christ. How was he going to explain this to Randa? How was he going to tell her he'd beaten this girl's head to a pulp because she'd been torturing him in a voice that Randa could never hear? Jesus, how was he going to tell Randa that he'd killed someone?

He reached for the girl. He took her by the shoulder and turned her over.

The bloodied, lifeless face in front of him was Randa's.

“Jack!” A voice in the distance. Hands on him. Whose?

“Jack, it's okay! Jack!”

He woke up.

“Jack, it's okay! Jack!”

The fact that she kept calling his name made him realize he was still screaming. He forced himself to stop. “Randa . . .”

She's alive! She's here!

“Jack, it's okay. You just had a bad dream.”

He could feel her arms around him. He was still breathing hard and he could barely control his trembling, but he took her face in his hands and looked at her.

“Randa, you're okay . . .”

“I'm fine. You were dreaming.”

He pulled her to him and held her as close as he could without hurting her. He rocked her and kissed her on the forehead and said her name over and over. He could feel her arms on his back, hugging him. It was okay.

“Was it one of those dreams?”

“I thought you . . . were hurt.”

“Well, I'm not.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Here, lie back down.” He obeyed. She pulled him close to her and held him. She stroked his cheek with her hand and whispered, “It's okay.” There was no way he could explain. It wasn't even the dream that had scared him so badly. It was that feeling, when he was lost in that homicidal fury. It was the familiarity of that feeling. He'd been there before, and not in a dream. But he couldn't tell her that.

He felt her kissing his shoulder.

“I'm okay,” he whispered, lying again. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” She put her head on his shoulder and snuggled closer.

She fell asleep after a few minutes. He stared at the ceiling and waited for the sun to come up.

He dressed in the sitting room, where his clothes were still lying in a pile on the floor. He put on the jacket and stuffed the tie in the pocket, then looked at himself in the mirror over the wet bar. Nothing he could do about shaving, but the hair on his face was so blond it took him days to look unkempt. He didn't know why he was concerned about his appearance, except that he felt so horrible about what he was doing, he didn't want anyone to look at him and suspect anything close to the truth.

There was a MARTA station on Lenox Road, within easy walking distance. He could take the MARTA downtown, then catch a bus back to Barton. Maybe when she woke up and found him gone, she'd be angry enough to give up without a fight.

What if I'm blowing this all out of proportion? What if I'm leaving her for no good reason?

You can't risk it. You can't gamble with her life.

He stuck his head in the door to the bedroom to look at her one more time. The room was darkened by the heavy hotel drapes, and the light from the doorway fell across her like a pale spotlight. Her face was partly covered by her hair, but he could see how peaceful she looked. There was a tiny smile that showed up only on the corners of her lips. Her arm was still bent upward beside her where he'd slipped out from under it.

It came back to him in a rush, the memory of her skin against his, the smell of her hair, the safety he'd felt in her arms. But
his
safety wasn't the issue.

He forced himself to turn away from her, closing the door softly behind him. When he left the suite, he hung the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on the door. By the time she woke up, there'd be a safe distance between them.

Making his way down Lenox Road, it was all he could do not to relive the night in his mind. The good part. The part that, up until the nightmare, was easily the best night of his life. Why did she have to show up at the exact moment he was disintegrating? But then, he was a Landry. What else should he expect?

Maybe he should have told her. Maybe he should have let
her
decide whether or not she wanted to be in love with a lunatic. They could just enjoy his sane periods while they lasted, then she could come and visit him in the asylum.

It's too dangerous.

What?
He looked around, then realized the voice was clearly internal this time, although it was as obvious and as intrusive as the “outside” voice.

You know who you are.

What is that supposed to mean?

You know what it means.

It was true. He knew. He'd known for a long time. What would happen the first time something triggered one of those lethal moments that crop up in any relationship? The first time he wanted to strangle her for something.
Would
he?

It's not like you don't have it in you.

Yeah, thanks. I'd almost forgotten.

He didn't need to be reminded of the incident that had ruled his every waking moment for the last decade. The night that had, for all intents and purposes, ended his life. Provoked by what? Anything worth throwing his life away? Hardly. One mouth-breathing hillbilly yelling at a TV screen. One drunk, ignorant redneck exercising his constitutional right to free speech.

“Oh, shut that ACLU bitch up and fry the bastard!”

And then an unaccountable lapse of time, until he was suddenly aware of people pulling on him, shouting, and the drunk on the floor, his face a strange purplish red, his eyes bulging, and Jack's hands around his throat. The strength in those hands when people had tried to pry them off. The fury into which his consciousness had dissolved, in that unknown moment when he had unleashed whatever was inside him and then just stood out of its way. And the most frightening part—that even after he'd realized what he was doing, he'd still wanted to kill the guy. And if the others hadn't been there to stop him . . .