John Hart - The King Of Lies

“That’s why you slept with my father? For money?”

“Not for money. Money is a thousand dollars or ten thousand. He’d never trust you with fifteen million dollars. He was going to leave you three.” She laughed bitterly. “Just three. Can you believe it? Rich as he was. But I convinced him. He changed it to fifteen. I did that for you.”

“You didn’t do it for me, Barbara.”

The gun began to shake in her hand, and I saw her fingers whiten where she gripped it. “You don’t know me. Don’t pretend that you know me. Or what I’ve been through. Knowing that the tapes were here. Knowing what it would mean if somebody else found them.”

“Can you put the gun down, Barbara? It’s not necessary.”

She didn’t respond, but the barrel drifted lower, until it pointed at the floor. Barbara’s eyes followed it and she seemed to slump. For an instant, I dared to breathe, but when her face came up, her eyes sparkled.

“But then you started seeing that country whore again.”

“Vanessa didn’t have anything to do with us,” I said.

The gun came up, and Barbara screamed, “That bitch was trying to steal my money!”

I had a horrible revelation. “What did you do to her?”

“You were going to leave me. You said so yourself.”

“But that had nothing to do with her, Barbara. That was about us.”

“She was the problem with us.”

“Where is she, Barbara?”

“She’s gone. That’s all that matters.”

Inside, I felt something tear. Vanessa was the only reason I had left for living. So I said what was on my mind.

“I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you’re faking.” This time, I stepped toward her. My life was over. I had nothing. This woman had taken everything and I let my anger build. I gestured at the blank screen, but in my mind I still saw her, and the way she screamed. “You loved it. You loved fucking him. Was he that good? Or did you just like the idea of hurting me?”

Barbara laughed, and the gun came up. “Oh. Now you’re a man. Now you’re a tough guy. Well, let me tell you. Yes, I loved it. Ezra knew what he wanted and knew how to get it. He had power. I don’t mean strength. I mean power. Fucking him was the biggest rush I ever had.” Her top lip curled. “Coming home to you was a joke.”

I saw something in her face, and had another revelation. “He dumped you,” I said. “He liked having sex with you because of the power he held. He controlled you, manipulated you; but then he realized that you liked it, and once that happened, he got bored. So he dumped you. That’s why you shot him.”

I was right. I knew that I was. I saw it in her eyes, and in the way her lips twitched. For a moment, I felt a fierce joy, but it didn’t last.

I saw her pull the trigger.

I dreamed again of contentment, of green fields, the laughter of a small girl, and Vanessa’s cheek pressed softly against my own; but dreams are fickle deceivers, and they never last. I caught a final fleeting glimpse of cornflower eyes and heard a voice so faint, it must have crossed oceans; and then the pain hit with such ferocity that I knew I was in hell. Fingers peeled back my eyelids, and red light was everywhere, beating at the world. Hands ripped at my clothes, and I felt metal against my skin. I struggled, but bone-white fingers forced me down and bound me. Blank faces flickered in and out; they floated, spoke a language I couldn’t understand, and then were gone, only to return again. And the pain was ever constant; it pulsed like blood, it channeled through me, and then there were more hands upon me and I tried to scream.

Then there was motion and a white metal sky that rocked as if I were at sea. I saw a face I’d come to loathe, but Mills did not torment me further. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t answer; I didn’t understand. Then she left, just as I understood, and so I called out. I had the answer. But bloody hands forced her back, until she pushed them away, found the place above me, and leaned into my words. I had to shout, because I was in a deep well and falling fast. So I did. I screamed, but her face fell forever into the white sky and I crashed into the powdered ink that filled the bottom of the well. And my last thought as darkness settled around me was to wonder at a white sky in hell.

But even in that blackness, time seemed to pass, and on occasion there was light. The pain rose and fell like the tides, and when it was weak, I imagined faces and voices. I heard Hank Robins arguing with Detective Mills, who, I sensed, wanted to ask more questions; but that didn’t make sense. Then Dr. Stokes, looking old with worry. He held a clipboard and was talking to a strange man in a white coat. And once Jean was there, and she wept with such force that it killed me to see it. She told me she understood, that Hank had told her everything-about the jail and my willing sacrifice. She said that she loved me but knew that she could never spend life in prison for me. She said that made me better than her, but that didn’t make sense, either. I was in hell, but it was hell of my own making. I tried to explain that to her, but my throat wouldn’t open. So I watched in silence and waited for the well to pull me back in.

Once, I thought I saw Vanessa, but that was hell’s cruelest joke, and I did not rise to it. I closed my eyes and wept for the loss of her, and when I looked up, she was gone. I was alone, cold in the dark. The cold seemed to last forever, but eventually the heat found me, so that I remembered. I was in hell. Hell was hot, not cold. And hell was pain, so that when I woke and found it all but gone, I thought the dream had returned. I opened my eyes, but there was no child, no field, and no Vanessa. Perhaps the torments of this place were more than purely physical.

When finally I woke, I blinked in the cool air and heard the rustle of movement; so that when a face appeared above me, I was prepared for it. It was blurry at first, but I blinked it into focus. It was Jean’s.

“Relax,” she said. “Everything’s fine. You’re going to be okay.”

A stranger appeared beside her, the man in the white coat. He had dark features and a beard that glistened as if oiled. “My name is Dr. Yuseph,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.” A dry croak. “Weak.” I could not lift my head.

The doctor turned to Jean. “He can have an ice chip, but only one. Then another in ten minutes or so.”

I heard the clink of a spoon, and Jean leaned over me. She slipped an ice chip into my mouth. “Thanks,” I whispered. She smiled, but there was pain in it.

“How long?” I asked.

“Four days,” the doctor replied. “In and out. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Four days.

He patted me on the arm. “You’ll recover; it’ll hurt, but you’ll get there. We’ll put you on solid foods as soon as you feel up for it. Once your strength returns, you’ll start physical therapy. It won’t be long before you’re out of here.”

“Where am I?”

“Baptist Hospital. Winston-Salem.”

“What about Barbara?” I asked.

“Your sister can tell you anything you want to know. Just take it easy. I’ll be back in an hour.” He turned to Jean. “Don’t tire him. He’ll be weak for some time yet.”

Jean reappeared at the bedside. Her face was swollen, the flesh around her eyes as dark as wine. “You look tired,” I said.

She smiled wanly. “So do you.”

“It’s been a tough year,” I said, and she laughed, then turned away. When she looked back, she was crying.

“I’m so sorry, Work.” Her words broke, and the edges seemed to cut her. Her face reddened and her eyes collapsed. The tears devolved into sobs.