Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (20 page)

Take, for instance, a guy named Mark Hodgson. He lived out in Standish. A year or so ago, his daughter’s kitten, Patches, got chased up into a tree by a neighborhood dog. Long after the dog was gone, the kitten wouldn’t come down. Maybe it was too young to know how to climb back down. Well, instead of doing what any sensible person would do and call the fire department of animal rescue, Mark got a ladder from his garage and climbed up to fetch the little kitty. Problem was, he lost his footing on one of the high branches. Jay thought he should have known better than to climb a tree wearing shoes with leather soles instead of sneakers. Any kid could have told him how slippery leather is on tree bark. But big, brave daddy had to prove to his daughter, who was in tears at the base of the tree, how much of a hero he was.

When Mark lost his footing, though, he didn’t just fall and break a leg or his damned fool neck. No, somehow, he twisted around so his head got caught in the V of a branch. He was lodged there pretty good, kicking and screaming and thrashing about, trying to get loose. He kicked so hard his leather-soled shoes flew off, for all the good they did him. But try as he might, he couldn’t get his head out from between those branches. By the time the town rescue crew showed up, Mark Hodgson had strangled to death.

“Man Accidentally Hangs Self,” Jay’s headline read on the front page of the local section the next morning. It was the sad, simple truth. Jay (and probably a high percentage of his readers) found this incident amusing in a “Darwin Awards” sort of way, but Jay figured that’s just the way it went sometimes. You win some. You lose some. Some get rained out. And sometimes you just get hung out to dry—literally.

Or take what happened to this guy named Norman Riley. Norm was painting his house one fine summer day when he inadvertently bumped his ladder against the electrical power line coming into the house from the pole. A couple of things were working against Norm that day. The ladder he was using was made of aluminum, and the wire he hit had a frayed spot that just happened to make contact with the ladder. Needless to say, the electricity grounded out through the ladder—and Norm, who—a neighbor who witnessed the accident said—lit up like a Christmas tree before dropping to the ground with tendrils of black smoke curling up from his scalp into the bright summer sky. The singed hair left a bad smell hanging in the air.

Jay had wanted to run with “Man Paints House Shocking New Color,” but Mel Parker, his editor, nixed that idea. Too grim. Instead, they went with “Shocking Death.” Jay also wanted to mention something about Norm’s new hairdo, but he didn’t even try to get that past Mel.

Jay would be the first to admit that these stories were sad if not downright tragic, but he would also be the first to say that you (and by “you” he meant just about everyone who reads the morning newspaper) had to see at least a touch of humor in these situations. Like the old saying goes: “If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.”

But there was nothing funny about the death of Marie Kilburn. Marie was a local celebrity of sorts, having been married at one time to a ridiculously wealthy man by the name of Preston Kilburn. Yes …
that
Preston Kilburn. The man who owned Kilburn News Service … The man whose company published the
Morning Express
where Jay worked.

Preston
and Marie had divorced decades ago. He died a few years ago in Paris in the arms of his lover, who was half his age. (Apparently, Preston had too much of something besides money to go around.) Marie inherited the newspaper and became a celebrity in town, making a career of being the local philanthropist. She would show up at every grand opening and charity event, and the next day, the photo on the front page of the newspaper (
her
newspaper) would inevitably feature her. The joke was, she’d show up at the opening of an envelope. Marie had a reputation for hogging the limelight from the organizers and anyone else who perhaps should have been featured in the article. She might have taught Paris Hilton a lesson or two in her time. So when Marie “fell” from the eighteenth floor balcony of her penthouse suite, it—of course—made the state and national news.

Jay didn’t think Marie’s death was particularly funny or even instructive in the way that some deaths can and possibly should be funny or instructive, but he wasn’t exactly broken up about it, either. He considered Marie Kilburn a press hog, a diva, and a showboat whose life probably was as miserable as her thinly disguised suicide indicated. The fact that she was his boss had nothing to do with the … dare he admit it? … the “ghoulish” delight he took in her “accident.”

“Social Plunge” and “Down in the Ratings” were two headlines he wanted to consider.

But Jay had only one concern. He had to get the perfect photograph to accompany his article for tomorrow’s edition that would reveal the high alcohol level in Marie’s blood and the hastily scrawled attempt at a suicide note the police purportedly found—but weren’t releasing to the public—on her coffee table.

Jay was determined to get a shot of the sidewalk eighteen stories down from the balcony from which Marie had … err … “fallen.” Another headline he was toying with headlines was: “Local Philanthropist Found to be a Fallen Woman.” That had a little more class than, say, “Newspaper Heiress Makes Big Impression on Sidewalk.”

The first thing he did at the front desk was ask for the manager. When Mr. Saunders appeared, Jay humbly requested that he be allowed to take a few shots inside Marie’s suite. Mr. Saunders informed him that he would need permission from the surviving family, but since Marie and
Preston never had any children, Jay wasn’t sure who that might be. A cousin somewhere in Utah, maybe, who had never heard of e-mail?

So after Mr. Saunders returned to his office, Jay approached the man at the front desk and subtly offered him a bribe. He wasn’t so explicit the man couldn’t deny it later if he had to, but it not only didn’t work; it got him a stern warning from the desk clerk that he would not hesitate to call security and the police if necessary and have Jay forcibly removed if he didn’t leave on his own.

Jay knew a man name “Hoggie” who worked in the restaurant inside the same building, but his bad luck was holding true; “Hoggie” had been fired a few weeks ago, apparently for a drug-related offense. Why did stuff like that always happen to his best contacts?

So that left Jay one and only one option.

He would have to break into Marie’s apartment to get his picture.

Of course, that presented a few problems since the desk clerk already knew what he looked like and what he wanted, and he had already warned Jay in no uncertain terms that he was to leave the premises immediately.

Finally, though, Jay’s streak of bad luck turned when he came back later that evening. A different person—a young and very attractive young woman—was at the front desk. Jay didn’t want to bother asking for permission. He knew where
that
would get him. Being honest with himself, he had to admit that he was a few years past his prime if he was going to try sweet-talking this woman. He knew where that would end up, so he loitered in the lobby, concealing his camera as best he could, until one of the other tenants arrived and unlocked the door leading to the residents’ elevators. Muttering something about having forgotten his keys, he followed the elderly couple through the door, casting a wary glance over his shoulder to make sure the woman at the desk wasn’t already on the phone, calling security.

From there, it was a simple matter of taking the elevator to the eighteenth floor—the top floor of the building—jimmying the door lock to Marie’s apartment—never as easy as they make it out to be on TV—and letting himself into the penthouse, CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS tape be damned.

Jay was impressed.

Marie’s “apartment” was the kind of place he could never afford, not with his pay. True, Marie was his boss, and since he worked for Marie’s company and his work helped pay the rent, he told himself he had a perfect right to be here.

Marie would appreciate the lengths he went to for a story.

Off-duty, Jay enjoyed spending his time with people whose lives—like his—could be bought ten times over with the spare change rattling around at the bottom of the purse of someone like Marie Preston. He didn’t go for “fancy.” Still, he couldn’t help but be impressed, so he took a few moments to look around and savor the luxury.

Wandering from room to room, he admired the elegance and taste of the décor—the gold fixtures—
real
gold—spigots in the bathroom sink and shower—plush white carpet in the living room that was thicker than most animal’s pelts—china and crystal place-settings in a hand-carved hutch made of the same dark mahogany as the dining room table and chairs that could seat twenty people comfortably.

Jay wondered if he could ever get used to living like this as he meandered over to the wet bar, picked up a bottle of the very best vodka, and poured himself a healthy couple of shots—make that three—into a crystal shot glass. He inhaled deeply and tilted his head back in appreciation of the first belt, letting the liquor burn a path slowly down his throat to his stomach.

Yes, indeedy-do, maybe he
could
get used to living like this. He knocked back the second drink, savoring the experience.

But he wasn’t going to get rich lingering around over drinks in a dead woman’s penthouse when he had work to do. He came here to get a photograph, and just in case that woman at the desk
had
noticed him and called hotel security, he’d best be getting about his business.

He cautioned himself to be careful about leaving fingerprints behind. The police had obviously already combed the residence, so he wasn’t concerned about being framed or under suspicion for Marie’s demise, although with what she paid him and the way she allowed the managing editor to squelch his stories, he could imagine getting angry enough to do …
something
. Even though he hadn’t been “amused” by Marie’s death, the truth was he wasn’t exactly broken up about it, either.

Okay … maybe there was a bit of the ghoul in him after all. He wanted to see and photograph for all the world to see where she had “gone over.”

Still, it paid to be cautious, so before he unlocked the sliding glass door that led out onto the balcony, he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He reminded himself to make sure he wiped the shot glasses and vodka bottle before he left, too. All he needed was one picture, and he’d be gone.

The balcony was considerably wider than it looked from street level. He hadn’t been expecting that, but then again—people like Marie Kilburn did
everything
larger than ordinary people—people like Jay—did. It was late spring, and the reclining chairs—which probably cost more than Jay’s entire living room ensemble—had already been put out. A warm breeze curled into the alcove and, from below, Jay could hear the faint sounds of traffic passing by. He tossed back about half of the third shot of vodka, wanting the pleasure to last, and then walked over to the railing. He was dizzy when he leaned over and peered down.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what might have happened that night.

Marie, for whatever reasons—either something dramatic had happened recently or, more likely, the accumulated desperation of her shallow life had finally caught up with her—had scribbled a self-pitying note and then, probably without much hesitation or forethought because she had always been a hard-charging, decisive woman, she had walked over to … right … about … here … Jay guessed, climbed up onto the railing—probably awkwardly for such an old woman—and with one last step, dropped into the night where the next stop was eighteen stories down.

It was rather sad, really … pathetic, even … and maybe even actually tragic when you thought about it, and by “you” Jay meant everyone who had a pulse and was drawing breath. Here was a woman who, in the eyes of the world had
everything
a person could possibly want—money, prestige, celebrity, friends (of a sort), and—yes, power. And none of it … not one iota of it was enough to keep her from pitching herself headlong over the railing and falling to the pavement eighteen stories below.

It was too bad, Jay thought, that he hadn’t thought to hire an actress to dress up like Marie Kilburn, put on a wig and dress like the one Marie had worn that night, so he could get a photo he could pass off as an authentic shot of Marie Kilburn’s body splattered on the sidewalk. He could have photo-shopped in some blood later. The
Morning Express
would never have run it, but he could have sold something like that to some tabloid or other … probably for a lot more money than he was making at the
Express
. Maybe then he’d be able to live a lifestyle at least approaching what he’d seen in Marie’s penthouse.

But it was too late for that.

This was his only chance.

He had to get the best shot he could tonight because he couldn’t risk trying to come back tomorrow and breaking in again after finding an actress who was willing to pose as a corpse. Jay took another sip of vodka and decided to have a smoke while he lined up his shot. Holding his drink in one hand, he fished a pack of cigarettes and his lighter from his pockets with the other. He shook out a cigarette, pegging it to his lower lip, and had just clicked the lighter when he heard someone open the door to the penthouse.

He wheeled around to see who it was, expecting hotel security or the cops. He was raising the flame of the lighter to the cigarette in his mouth when his jacket fetched up on the edge of the balcony railing. The sudden jolt made him spill what was left of his drink over the front of his jacket. Without thinking, he dropped his hand to wipe it away, forgetting for a moment that he was still holding a flaming cigarette lighter in that hand.