Lee Child: First Thrills

Would Zack be alive if for just once in her life Pam had stood up to her husband and said, “No”?

There was a large cooler beside John’s bed, and she could not help but shudder at the sight of it. Were they going to chop him up and throw him in the van?

“Open it,” he told her, and despite her better judgment, she did. What had she been expecting to find? A head-sized thermos? A steaming vat of liquid nitrogen? Certainly not the little baggies of ice she found.

“To preserve me while they…” his finger made a dragging motion across his neck.

“What?” But Pam understood. She could see where his finger had traced across his throat, a cut that would be real soon enough.

“Of course… the procedure is… illegal,” he managed, his breath raspy so that he had to put the mask back over his face.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. When he did not answer, she found herself staring at the bags of cubed ice as if they were tea leaves and she a wise old gypsy.

“In California,” he finally gasped. “It’s illegal to cut off…” He took another breath of oxygen. “The law considers it mutilating… a dead body.”

“Well, it is mutilation,” she said, letting the cooler lid slam back into place. Of course it was illegal to cut the head off a dead body-even in this Godforsaken loony bin of a state. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He laughed, the old John bringing a sparkle into his eyes.

“You’re absolutely insane,” she told him, but she laughed, too. My God, over twenty years with this man. A house, a home, a son, a life. Twenty years of her existence meshed in with his like the weave of a blanket.

“Don’t cry,” he said, reaching out for her hand. Before she could stop herself, she took his hand, felt the coldness of his skin. Had it been like this since Zack’s death? The truth was that the reason she couldn’t make love to John was because his touch sent a deathly chill through her. Had John been a ghost all this time? Had he cried so many tears, wept for so many nights, that the life had seeped out of him?

He was wearing silk pajamas, a dark burgundy that only brought out the sallowness of his skin. There was a blanket folded at the end of the bed, his feet resting on top of it.

He said, “Gross,” and she took a minute to realize he meant his toenails. They were long and yellow, disgusting to look at. “John Hughes.”

“Howard Hughes,” she corrected before she could stop herself.

There was a flash in his eyes, but he didn’t pursue it. The John she knew would have never let her get away with correcting him. For the first time since she had heard from him, Pam realized that he really was dying, that this was it. No matter what she did with her life, where she went, she would do so with the knowledge that John no longer walked the face of the earth.

Granted, he would be in stasis in a vat of liquid nitrogen somewhere, but still.

“Remember,” he began. “With Zack… you bit… his toenails.”

She felt herself smile at the memory. Once, very early on, she had accidentally trimmed one of Zack’s nails to the quick. Her heart had broken at the sight of blood, and Zack’s screaming still reverberated in her ears if she thought about it long enough. After that, she had used her teeth to clip his nails, terrified she would hurt him with the sharp metal clippers. Standing beside John’s deathbed, she could almost feel Zack’s thin nails between her teeth, taste the sour, baby-soft skin of his feet.

“I…” John moved the mask back over his mouth and nose, and she could see his chest rising and falling. “I need to…”

She shushed him. “It’s okay.”

“I want to…”

“Don’t worry,” she said, thinking that if he apologized now, she wouldn’t know what to do with herself.

He took a few deep breaths, his eyes slitting almost closed. Suddenly, he opened them wide as if he remembered that he could die if he closed them too long. “I… I left you something.”

Years had passed, but she could still remember the shame she had felt when she’d had to ask him for lunch money because she’d run through her allowance before the week was out.

He had refused her request and told her to be more careful the next time.

“I left… you… something.”

She tried to keep her anger down, saying, “I told you I don’t want your money.”

“Not money,” he said, his lips twisting in a half smile. “Better.”

“Don’t give me anything, John. I don’t want anything from you.” Why had she come here? Why had she agreed to get on a plane and fly all the way out here?

To watch him die. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had known it all along that she wanted to watch him die, watch John succumb to something over which he had no control. She had wanted to see death wipe that knowing smirk off his face, and she wanted to be standing over him while this happened, watch him realize that there was one thing out there that he could not get the better of. Let the world think of him as their loving healer, but let Pam watch him die with them both knowing what a lying, conniving piece of shit he was.

The heart monitor gave an irregular beep and the oxygen mask cleared of fog from his breath. She waited, counting… one… two… three… until he took a gulp of air into his lungs, the machinery of life moving forward.

Pam felt ashamed. What kind of person was she that she could take such plea sure in his pain? How could think these things about the father of her child?

John’s chest rose with effort. “Need to tell you…” he tried again.

“No,” she said. She couldn’t hear his apology, not now, not after hating him for so long. “Please don’t.” She could not bear more shame.

He waved his hand out, saying, “Sit.”

She went to his desk to get the chair, but stopped when she saw the stack of old notebooks piled on top. She recognized the journals, remembered them from their married days when he would sit in his chair, scribbling down his private thoughts. Pam had been tempted, especially after the affair, but she had never read them, never violated his privacy.

Pam started to roll the chair over to his bed, but he waved her away. “No,” he said. “Read.”

“I’m not going to read your journals.” She didn’t add that it was hard enough reading his damn book.

“Read,” he insisted, then, “Please.”

Pam relented, or at least appeared to. She rolled the chair back, her hands gripping the soft leather. God, he had probably paid more for this chair than she had for her car.

She sat at the desk and opened the first book she put her hand on. She did not want to read the journal, could not handle the further blow to her self-esteem of reading his early diatribes on her failures. Her fingers found a letter opener, and she winced, jerking back her hand as she felt the sharp edge slice her skin. The letter opener was actually a stiletto. The small knife looked to be made of brass. Jewels decorated the handle, and the blade was finely sharpened as if John needed to defend himself from strangers entering his office.

The only person he would ever need to defend himself from was Pam.

“Read…” John admonished, his voice weaker than ever. “Please…”

Pam sighed, giving into curiosity as she picked up one of the journals. She thumbed to the first page. It was dated three years into their marriage, and she skimmed the parts about whiny students and a blister he’d gotten from grading papers.

Her eyes stopped on one word: Beth.

Pam finished the journal in under an hour-a year of John’s life encapsulated in the blink of an eye.

Another year, another name: Celia.

Year six brought two names: Eileen and Ellen.