Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

A half hour later Nick still hadn’t come home and she hadn’t moved from the sofa. Anger was gradually easing away her depression. Where was he? Still out with that ass wiggling bimbo? She had to do something. What? She couldn’t sleep and she didn’t want to sit on the sofa worrying and waiting.

She got up, went to the bedroom, threw on a clean pair of faded Levi’s and a tank top, grabbed her keys and a corkscrew from the kitchen, then went out the back and padded barefoot down the stairs, skipping over the squeaky step, to the garage. She keyed the lock, hit the lights and went straight to the walk-in wine cellar, where she grabbed the last bottle of sixty-eight Heitz. It was her all time favorite. If you could get it now, it’d cost a fortune.

She locked the garage, walked between the duplex and the apartment building next door, crossed the street to the beach. The cool sand tingled her toes as she started toward the pier. Soon she was at that place where the Olympic pool blocked out the cars on Ocean. She slowed her pace, eyes on the pier, thoughts on the men that lived underneath it as she approached.

Her heart thumped a quick tattooed rhythm as she got closer. Earlier, with those men chasing her, she’d run right on under. Now, with no one after her, she found she was afraid of the two men under there. Maybe it was stupid, this idea of bringing a bottle of wine out to share with them. She didn’t belong here, not now, not after dark. This was their place. She was intruding.

She was about thirty feet from the dark under there when she stopped. She willed herself to go on, but her feet froze in place. She wanted to call out to them, tell them she’d brought them something, but she couldn’t. All of a sudden she was more afraid than when she was running from that big Virgil character.

In her rational mind she knew it was nonsense. Those men under there had helped her, saved her. But deep down she was shaking. She took a step backward, another. Then a few more. She moved a good way away before she turned, head down, and walked along the edge of the water, the ocean sounds soothing her fear. But now the depression was back.

She dropped the bottle of wine, dropped to her knees and sat Japanese style, staring out at the dark sea and cried. Quiet tears at first that welled up into great racking sobs.

She was alone.

She was going to kill her baby.

All of a sudden, she was back in the Borneo rain forest, driving as fast as she could on a muddy track with Sara shouting out the turns as Maggie concentrated on the driving, squinting through the rain, doing her best to see through it, trying to see what Sara told her should be there, then all of a sudden the child was there, eyes wide in fear as Maggie drove the car into him, cutting off his scream.

She’d killed him.

Snuffed out his life.

And she was going to do it again.

She was going to kill her baby, let some abortion doctor rip it from her womb, throw it away as if it were no more than a bloody tampon. A thing not wanted. A thing better off forgotten. But she’d never forget. She’d remember for the rest of her life.

If only she had the courage to face up to what she’d done. If only she had the courage to tell Nick. But she didn’t. She couldn’t even drive past the speed limit. No, there was no way out for her, save abortion. She was such a coward. She bit her lip, wiped the tears away with cold hands. After a bit she felt she could stand. She reached out for the bottle of wine.

It was gone.

“Fuck, what are we gonna do now?” Horace put the right blinker on as they passed the Edgewater Marina. “You coulda gone in there after her.”

“Not me. It was scary under there and there was those men.” Virgil was wringing his hands in his new T-shirt.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Horace really couldn’t blame the big guy. Did you blame cows ’cuz they couldn’t fly? “Besides, there coulda been more than two of ’em.”

“Coulda been a gang,” Virgil said.

“It don’t matter anyway. She’s scared, so she’s probably gonna go straight home.” Horace turned right off of Second Street onto Pacific Coast Highway. “When she gets there, we’ll be waiting.”

“I don’t think I like your work.” Virgil was rocking back and forth in his seat now.

“Stop that! And put your seatbelt on!”

“Sorry.” Virgil stopped the rocking, belted up, rolled his window down.

“Not gonna smoke in the van, are you?” Horace said.

“Can’t help it.” He unwrapped the pack from his sleeve, pulled his Zippo from the left front pocket of his jeans, lit the cigarette, took a deep drag. Virgil had arms like an ox, it was a wonder the cigarettes weren’t crushed between the tight fitting T-shirt and his bulging biceps.

“You didn’t give me back my knife,” Virgil said.

Horace handed it over.

Virgil loved that knife. It was the best thing Horace had ever given him. The big guy spent hours flicking the blade. Horace was surprised it still worked. He’d picked it up in Tijuana for almost nothing and expected it to last about a month, but Virgil had been abusing it for a couple of years and it kept on flicking.

“Try to keep the smoke outside.” He shook his head.

A car honked. Horace snapped his attention back to the road. He’d started to drift over into the oncoming traffic. He jerked the van back to the right. “Fuck head.”

“Want me to drive?” Virgil said.

“No.” Horace frowned.

“So, we gonna go home now?”

“No, I still gotta serve those papers, remember?”

“You should get another job.”

“Somebody’s gotta pay the bills. If I didn’t do what I do, we’d all starve.”

“Maybe I could get a job, work at a gas station.”

“That’s a thought, but right now I gotta finish what I promised to do. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“Yeah, I suppose. So, what are you gonna do?”

“I’ll think of something.” But Horace wondered what. If she went to the cops about what happened, they’d give her around the clock protection. He’d never get to her.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in Huntington Beach, passing the Sand and Sea Condos where Margo Kenyon lived. Horace turned left on Main Street, made a U-turn and parked in front of Jerry’s Surf Shop, facing PCH and the condos on the other side of the street. It was a little before nine and though the stores were closed, the restaurants were open. People were out and about.

It was quiet in the van.

Virgil lit another cigarette. Horace wanted to tell him to put it out, but he bit back the words. Instead, he said, “She’s got this fag boyfriend she don’t want anyone to know about, that’s where she’s been all week. That could be good for us, she might think we were a couple a crazies who chased her just ’cuz she was there. She might think she’s safe when she gets back home.”

“She is safe, all you’re doing is giving her those papers, right?” Virgil said.

“Well, la de da,” Horace said, ignoring his brother as a red Porsche convertible turned into the condominium complex. “And they say lightning don’t strike twice.”

“What’s that mean?” Virgil said.

“It means we get a second chance and we better not blow it this time or I’m gonna get fired.” Horace opened the door, changed his mind, closed it again. “And put out that damned cigarette.”

“What are you gonna do?” Virgil stared at the driveway into the Sand and Sea Condos, took a drag, then tossed the cigarette out the window.

“The guard rail’s propped up,” Horace said. “The guard just waved her on in.”

“Maybe he knows her.”

“Maybe he’s lazy.” Horace watched as the woman stuck her hand out the window, pointed it at a sliding fence gate and waited while it opened. “Look, she’s got a clicker to open the gate into the parking lot, that’s why the guard didn’t hassle her. You can’t get into the lot unless you got one of those. We need to get in there.”