The Wild Zone (14 page)

“I know she was never your biggest fan.”

Tom shrugged, took another sip of beer. “Like I care. When are you going back anyway? I’m sure the Wicked Witch misses her golden boy.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Shouldn’t overstay your welcome, little brother. You know what they say about houseguests, don’t you?” When Will failed to respond, Tom continued. “They’re like fish. After three days, they go bad.”

Again Will said nothing. He wondered what Suzy was doing, if she was listening to the conversation. He thought of the softness of her skin, the clean, fruity scent of her hair, the vaguely peppermint taste of her lips.

“You should have seen her, man,” Tom said, laughing now. “There she was, her head in the sink, her hair dripping wet. . . .”

“What are you talking about?” Will asked impatiently.

“I’m talking about Lainey. At the hairdresser’s. This morning,” Tom answered in exasperation, as if Will should know this already.

“I thought she was at the lawyer’s.”

“
First
she was at the lawyer’s,
then
she was at the hairdresser’s.” Tom bristled visibly. “She didn’t like me showing up there, I tell you. She got all nervous, warned me not to cause a scene, like it’s my fault this is all happening, like she’s not the one who took the kids and left. So we got into it a bit, and suddenly Donny Osmond’s there, telling me I’ve got to leave.”

“Donny Osmond?”

“Yeah, dickhead. Like Donny Osmond goes to Lainey’s hairdresser. What are you, retarded? It was a figure of speech.”

A figure of speech, Will thought, straining to make sense of the conversation. “Okay, so it didn’t go well.”

“Stupid faggot called the cops.”

“And you naturally came here,” Will said.

“I drove around for a while first, trying to calm down. Miami, man. Might as well be in downtown Havana. I’m telling you, the foreigners are taking over. I mean, I grant you the Cuban women wear miniskirts instead of burkas, and paella sure beats the hell out of whatever the crap it is they eat in Afghanistan, but it all amounts to the same thing. Pretty soon this country’s going to be nothing but a sea of brown faces. Lainey once told me she’d read how by the end of the next decade, white people are gonna be in the minority. Shit,” he said, finishing the rest of his beer. “I should have just shot her, man. I should have popped her one right between her beady little eyes. Blown her stupid brains all over those ugly blue sinks and reclining leather chairs.” He was laughing as he drew his gun out from underneath his shirt.

“What the hell?” Will exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

“You think old Donny boy is doing her?”

“Put that damn thing away.”

“Should have plugged him, too. Just in case.”

“Put the gun away, Tom.”

“You gonna make me?”

“Put the gun away, Tom,” a voice said from several feet away.

Tom spun toward the sound as Will held his breath.

Suzy advanced into the center of the room. “Put the gun away,” she said.

FOURTEEN

T
OM
TOOK A STEP
back. “What are you doing here?” He glanced from Will to Suzy, then back to Will, his voice an accusation. “Shit, man. You scored?”

“Looks like you’re out a hundred bucks,” Suzy said.

“Shit. I should shoot you just for that.”

“Relax,” Will told him. “Your money’s safe.”

“You didn’t score?”

“He did,” Suzy said.

“I didn’t,” Will countered.

Tom lowered his gun to his side, although he made no move to put it away. “Don’t tell me I interrupted something.”

“Your timing is as impeccable as ever.”

“Actually I was just leaving,” Suzy said.

“No,” Will said quickly. “Stay awhile. Tom’s the one who’s leaving. Aren’t you, Tom?”

Tom immediately assumed his former position in the beige leather chair. “Doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere.”

“I really should get going,” Suzy said.

“She has a husband, remember?” Tom asked.

Suzy walked toward the door.

“Your husband do that to your face?”

“What?” Suzy’s hand shot to her cheek, hovered above the bruise at her chin. “No, of course not. He’s a doctor. He’d never . . . I tripped. . . .”

“Uh-huh. You buying that shit, little brother?”

“Please don’t go,” Will whispered as Suzy reached for the doorknob.

“Don’t beg,” Tom said. “It’s pathetic.”

“Go to hell.”

“Why don’t we all go?” Tom raised the gun, aimed it directly at Suzy.

“For Christ’s sake, Tom . . .”

“I can shoot her in the foot, if you’d like. That’ll stop her.”

Will took a step toward Tom, wondering if he was strong enough—brave enough,
foolhardy
enough—to try wresting the gun from Tom’s hands, when the sound of Suzy’s voice stopped him.

“Or you could shoot my husband instead,” she said.

“What?” Will spun back toward Suzy.

Suzy’s eyes filled with panic. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I can’t believe I said that. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Will said.

“It sounded like you meant it to me,” Tom argued.

“It was a stupid thing to say.”

“I don’t know about that,” Tom said, chuckling. “I mean, if that’s what you really want, I’m sure we could work out some sort of deal. . . .”

“Please, just forget I said anything.” Suzy opened the door, stepped into the hall, Will close on her heels.

Tom waved. “Say hi to the good doctor.”

Suzy stopped. “Please tell me you know I didn’t mean it,” she whispered to Will.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“I know you do.” She leaned forward to kiss Will on the side of his mouth as her eyes locked on his. Don’t let me leave, they said. “Don’t follow me,” was what emerged. And then, in the next second, she was running along the outside corridor and down the stairs.

“You blew it, buddy,” Tom said as Will reentered the apartment, closing the door behind him.

“You’re a real piece of work,” Will muttered.

“A real piece of work with a gun,” Tom reminded him, waving it back and forth as if it were a small flag. “A real gun. With real bullets.” He pointed the gun at Will’s chest.

“You want to shoot me?” Will took two giant steps into the center of the room. His heart was pounding. His head was spinning. “Go ahead. Shoot me.”

Tom was smiling as he tucked the gun into his belt, although it remained clearly visible. “I just might take you up on that one day,” he said.

SUZY HEARD FOOTSTEPS
behind her as she neared the visitors’ parking area. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, saw no one. But seconds later, the footsteps resumed, falling in step with her own, mimicking her gait, getting closer. Was it possible Dave had followed her to the gym, watched her having coffee with Jeff, then followed the two of them here? Had he been puzzled to see Jeff and Kristin emerge without her soon after? And had he been patiently waiting ever since, his eyes trained on their apartment, eagerly anticipating her next move?

Had he witnessed Tom’s sudden appearance, followed by her hasty exit? Had his hands formed murderous fists at his sides as he watched her lean in to plant a delicate kiss on the side of Will’s mouth? Were those fists waiting for her now?

Suzy reached into her purse and grabbed her car keys, holding them in front of her as she continued briskly toward her car, her breathing ragged, her eyes darting nervously from side to side, on the lookout for Dave’s red Corvette. She didn’t see it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Damn it, why had she parked so far away?

She heard the footsteps behind her suddenly picking up speed. Suzy’s shoulders stiffened, automatically bracing themselves for the impact of Dave’s angry blows against her back. Would he be so bold as to attack her here, in the middle of the day, in such a public place? Or would he simply grab her arm, smile, and mutter, “Hello, darling,” as he pushed her toward her car, then wait until they were safely back inside their home before beating her to a bloody pulp?

She almost laughed. When had her home ever been safe? she wondered, feeling a slight breeze at her back, a faint tremor in the surrounding air, as if it were being brushed aside, and then the weight of a hand on her shoulder.

“No, please,” she cried, her eyes already filling with tears as she turned around.

“I’m sorry,” a woman quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I think you dropped this.”

“What?” Suzy had to blink several times before she could dislodge Dave’s features from the face of the short, elderly woman standing in front of her.

“You wouldn’t want to lose this,” the woman said, pushing something into Suzy’s palm. “Not with all this identity theft going on. It
is
yours, isn’t it? I’m sure I saw it fall out of your purse.”

Suzy found herself staring at the small photograph of herself on her Florida driver’s license. The license must have tumbled from her purse when she was getting her keys. “It’s me,” she acknowledged, although she barely recognized the bruise-free, confident-looking woman in the picture. “Thank you.”

“Have a nice day,” the woman said, walking toward a black Accord parked several spaces away and climbing awkwardly inside it.

“You too,” Suzy said quietly, returning her license to her purse. Her eyes skipped across the concrete floor of the parking lot, in search of any more of herself she might have lost along the way.

“Who are you anyway?” she asked her reflection in the car’s rearview mirror moments later. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” She started the car, checking in all directions as she backed out of the narrow space, looking for any sign of Dave, seeing none.

Which meant nothing, she understood as she turned onto the street. She would only see Dave if and when he wanted her to see him. Unlike Tom, Suzy knew that if Dave were following her, she wouldn’t know it until it was too late.

She checked her watch. Almost two o’clock. What was Dave up to that he wouldn’t be home until seven? Was he planning a surprise? Something to make up for the ferocity of his more recent attacks, something to reassure her of his love? Back when they first got married, when she was still naive enough to think that his apologies meant something, when he was still making an effort to disguise the enjoyment his tormenting her brought, he would often bring home little gifts—a piece of antique jewelry she’d admired in a store window; a chocolate Easter egg, the kind with the rich vanilla cream filling and the sticky lemon cream center that she loved; the latest Nora Roberts novel. “I’m so sorry,” he used to say, promising it would never happen again. “You know I never meant to hurt you.”

He never said he was sorry anymore. Instead, she was the one who was always apologizing. How had that happened?
When
had that happened? When had she begun accepting the blame for what he did to her? When had his temper become her responsibility?

How could she have let this happen? She, who had all the answers, who’d openly disdained and disparaged her mother for permitting all-too-similar abuse, she who’d sworn it would never happen to her, who thought she was so smart, so tough, so in control, when she was nothing but a pale carbon copy of her mother, the carbon evident in the black-and-blue smudges on her face.

She’d read somewhere that people choose what is familiar to them, that they seek out patterns, however heinous and ill advised, repeating them, often to their detriment, because they are unconsciously comfortable with them. They know what to expect.

The devil you know, she thought.

Had her subconscious known exactly the kind of man Dave Bigelow was all along? Had she married him understanding who he was,
what
he was, but pretending not to, pretending that if she was good enough, kind enough, diligent enough, woman enough,
not her mother
enough, she could change him, she could rewrite her sad history, effect a happy ending? Was that what she’d fooled herself into believing? Was that why she was so busy apologizing now?

Except she was through apologizing.

The light at the next corner turned yellow, and she pressed down on the accelerator, speeding through the intersection and almost colliding with a car that was making a left-hand turn. She gasped, swerved to her left, pulled her foot off the gas pedal.

I can shoot her in the foot, if you’d like,
she heard Tom say.

Or you could shoot my husband instead,
had been her quick response.

Had she really said that?

Had she meant it?

Could she go through with it?

“What’s the matter with me?” she asked out loud, realizing she’d been driving for the last ten minutes with no clear idea where she’d been going. Rather like the last ten years of my life, she thought, turning east toward Biscayne Bay.

She soon found herself in the section of downtown Miami known as Brickell. Brickell was famous for its futuristic-looking condos and towering glass office buildings that made South Beach look downright quaint. Constructed in the eighties, financed by what was rumored to be laundered cocaine money, and pulsating to a distinctive Latin American beat, it was a paean to all that might be considered excessive anywhere else. Here, extravagance was the norm.

Everything was oversize, from restaurants like Bongos Cuban Cafe, which comfortably accommodated 2,500 people and whose bar stools were shaped liked giant bongos, to Duo, an American bistro with a wine list of more than 600 bottles. Then there were the nightclubs. At least a dozen at last count, all competing for the title of Biggest, Loudest, Most Happening.

Suzy drove by the warehouse that was Bricks Nightclub and Sunset Lounge, a recent addition to the Brickell nightlife scene. She’d come here with Dave just after they moved to Miami, but they’d never bothered going back. The promoters liked to trumpet its “kinetic color lighting system,” under which club-goers danced to a mixture of house music, Latin, and hip-hop, but Dave said he preferred the clubs on the other side of the river, north maybe a dozen blocks. There was Metropolis Downtown, 55,000 square feet of young, intoxicated, drugged-out space cadets swaying to the deafening blare of electronic music under a circling succession of colored beams and flashing strobe lights; and Nocturnal, 22,000 square feet over three floors and a terrace that had cost roughly twelve million dollars to build. There was also Space, a cavernous, multilevel labyrinth of ear-splitting energy, where dancers indulged in high-end drugs and big-name DJs spun vinyl into gold. They’d gone there a couple of times, even though the action didn’t really start until the wee hours of the morning. But then Dave had accused her of staring too long at a passing waiter and dragged her out of the club by the scruff of her neck, like a puppy that had misbehaved. A smattering of applause had followed their exit. Outrageousness was to be encouraged after all. No one had chased after them to see if she was all right.

Would anyone notice if I just disappeared off the face of the earth? she’d wondered over the years. Would anyone care?

Will, she thought, seeing his sweet face flash across her front window. Will would notice. Will would care. She touched her mouth, relived the softness of his kisses, the tenderness of his touch.

Which was exactly the problem, she realized, pulling the car to the side of the curb in front of the Pawn Shop Lounge and stopping, staring at the original
WE BUY GOLD
sign that graced the nightclub’s slummy-looking exterior. Will was too sweet, too tender. His soft, patient kisses told her he was incapable of deliberate cruelty, that he would never be able to kill another human being.

Tom was a different story altogether. Cruelty fit him like a second skin. It flowed effortlessly through his veins, accompanied by equal doses of anger and entitlement. He was itching for a fight. And he had a gun.

But while Suzy knew Tom would have no trouble taking a life, she also recognized he was, in Will’s words, a loose cannon and that she could never depend on him to do what needed to be done without messing up or demanding too much in return.

And she wasn’t about to exchange one psychopath for another.

Which left Jeff.

Tough-talking, cynical, and not quite as smart as he liked to think he was, Jeff was exactly the man Suzy had been wishing for. Almost painfully proud of his sexual prowess, he was also full of wounded pride. Desperate to prove himself—to women, to men, but mostly to himself—he was full of the kind of false bravado that barely masked the scared little boy inside. And scared little boys were easy to manipulate.

Could she do it? Suzy wondered, watching a dark-haired couple weave by in each other’s arms. The man was at least a head taller than the woman and maybe two decades younger. She saw them stop at the corner, the young man’s right arm reaching down to cup the woman’s buttocks, which pressed against her brightly patterned jersey dress. She watched the woman’s head tilt back between her shoulder blades and laugh as the man covered her newly exposed throat with kisses. Who’s using who? she wondered.