Richard Montanari - The Devil_s Garden

The phone rang. Michael nearly jumped out of his skin. He ran across the room, stumbling over the desk chair, and picked up the receiver before the phone could ring a second time.

“Yes.”

“Just checking in, counselor.”

It was the one called Kolya. Michael knew enough about the world to know Kolya was the accomplice, a lackey, despite his claims to be the mastermind. “I’m here.”

“Smart man.”

“I need to talk to my wife.”

“Not gonna happen, boss.”

Boss. Prison.

“I need to know she is all right.”

No response. Michael listened closely to the receiver. There was no background noise. It was impossible to tell where Kolya was calling from. After a few moments pause, Kolya said:

“She’s a good-looking woman.”

A sick feeling washed over Michael. He had not considered for a moment that this could get worse. It just did. He battled back his rage. He lost the fight.

“I swear to Christ if you fucking touch -!”

“Thirty minutes.”

The line went dead.

It took every ounce of discipline within him not to slam down the receiver. He did not need a broken phone on top of everything. He took a few deep breaths, then calmly set the phone in its cradle.

He set the timer on his chronograph watch. He started it. In an instant the readout went from 30:00 to 29:59. He did not have much time to do what he needed to do.

He looked around the room for something to use. Something sharp. He opened the drawers in the dresser. Inside one was a yellowed cash-registry receipt, a glossy slip for three pairs of men’s support hose from Macy’s. The other held only the fading scent of a lavender sachet.

The two nightstands were empty, as were the closets, save for a pair of wire coat hangers. He took them off the rod, then stepped into the bathroom.

He tried to pull the mirror off the wall. It didn’t budge.

He wrapped his arm in his coat, turned away his head, and slammed his elbow into the mirror as hard as he could. Nothing. He planted his feet, tried again. This time the mirror cracked. He wrapped his hand in a towel, and pulled off the largest piece.

On the wall facing the adjoining room there were two electrical outlets, spaced about six feet apart. When Michael was in high school he had worked three summers for a leasing company that owned three apartment buildings in Queens. He picked up a few skills, one of which was hanging drywall in newly renovated apartments. As a rule of thumb, the studs in the wall were sixteen inches on center. If a contractor wanted to skimp, he sometimes placed them twenty-four inches apart. In most residential structures waterlines ran through the basement or crawlspace, coming up through the floor plates to the sinks, tubs, and toilets, leaving only electrical wire or conduit to run behind the plaster or drywall.

Michael stood in front of one of the electrical outlets, and began to tap along the wall with the middle knuckle on his right hand. Outlets were always attached to a vertical stud, on one side or the other. Directly above the outlet it sounded solid. As he moved left a few inches, it sounded hollow. When he reached what seemed like sixteen or so inches, it sounded solid again. He thudded the heel of his hand eight or so inches to the right. Hollow.

The bathroom was on the other side of the bedroom, so the chances of there being a sanitary stack or waterlines on this side were unlikely.

He dug the sharp shard of mirror into the wall. He peeled back the wallpaper. Beneath the wallpaper, as he had thought, was drywall, not plaster and wood lath. He pushed on it. It felt thin. He set himself, reared back, lifted his leg at the knee, and kicked the wall. The drywall cracked, but did not buckle.

He checked his watch. The readout said 12:50.

He picked up the shard of silvered glass, and began to cut into the drywall. Because he could not get a firm grip on the sharp glass, it was slow going, but after five minutes or so he cut all the way through to the other side. After three more kicks he had a hole large enough to crawl through.

His watch read 3:50.

He walked back to the window, inched aside the blind. The blue Ford had not moved, nor had the red Saturn returned. He went back to the hole in the wall, looked through. The room was identical to his, save for the rollaway suitcase on the bed, opened.

He stood, turned, picked up the motel phone, being careful not to dislodge the handset. The cord barely reached the opening.

He kicked the rest of the drywall in, squeezed himself through the opening. He walked across the room to the closet, opened the door. Inside was a black raincoat, along with a pair of maroon golf slacks and a white Polo shirt. On the shelf was a tweed cap, a pair of sunglasses.

Before Michael could get the clothes off the hanger, the phone rang. His phone. He dashed across the room, reached through the hole in the wall. He barely got there before the third ring.

“Yes.”

Silence. He had gotten to the phone too late.

“Hello!” Michael shouted. “I’m here. I’m here!”

“You’re cutting it close, counselor,” Kolya said. “Where were you?”

“I was in the bathroom. I’m sorry.”

A long pause. “You’re gonna be a lot fuckin’ sorrier, you know that?”

“I know. I didn’t -”

“You get one ring next time, Mr ADA. One. Don’t fuck with me.”

Dial tone.

Michael reached through the wall, put the phone back in its cradle. He set his watch again. This time for twenty-eight minutes. He changed his clothes, putting on the golf slacks and the raincoat. They were both two sizes too large, but they would have to do. He put on the tweed cap and the sunglasses, checked himself in the mirror. He did not look anything like the man who Kolya had brought to the motel, the man being held prisoner in Room 118.

At the door, he made sure he turned the knob, unlocking it. He had no idea what he was going to do, but whatever it was, he needed to be back in this room in twenty-six minutes and six seconds.

Kolya came down the stairs, closing his phone, a smug smile on his face. He had in his hand a sandwich. Abby could smell the hard salami from across the room. The smell nearly made her gag.

Kolya poked around the basement room, feeling the couch cushions, opening and closing the drawers on the old buffet. He flipped on the small television, ran through the channels, flipped it off. To Abby he looked like someone at a house sale, browsing the contents, seeing if things worked. Except, people like Kolya didn’t go to house sales.

He leaned against the washer, studied her, took another bite of the sandwich. His gaze made Abby want a shower.

“Your husband said something about money,” he finally said.

The words sounded strange. Money, after all this. “What are you talking about?”

He picked up a pair of crystal candlesticks Abby had been meaning to polish, looked underneath. He looked like a gorilla in a Waterford boutique. “He said he could get his hands on some serious money. You know anything about that?”

“No.”

He glanced around the basement again. “Now, not for nothin’, I mean, this is a nice house and all. More than I got. But you don’t look rich. Is there a safe in this place?”

Abby thought about the safe in the office. There was never more than two thousand dollars or so in there at any given time. Emergency cash. Abby could not imagine that such a small sum would be enough to make this all go away. Still, she had to try.

“Yes.”

“No shit. How much is in it?”

“I… I’m not sure. Maybe two thousand dollars.”

Kolya mugged, as if two thousand was beneath him. On the other hand, he didn’t turn it down. He turned to the corkboard next to the workbench. On it were calendars, greeting cards, family photographs. Kolya pulled out a push pin, studied a picture of Charlotte and Emily from the previous Halloween.