Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

I sat back down. “I guess I should eat what I ordered.”

“That’s almost sensible, coming from you.” The control was back in her voice, but behind her eyes something was shaking with near panic. She took out a pen and began scribbling something on the back of the first envelope. “I never understood how you managed to stay alive, what with the crap you eat. Do you get any protein besides peanut butter? Don’t answer that—it would probably just depress me.”

She slid the envelope toward me, all the while chatting away about this and that and nothing in particular and blah-blah-blah…

Her note read: You don’t have a choice. I can’t say that out loud. People are listening.

I looked up at her, then gestured for her pen.

You’re serious, aren’t you?

I pushed the envelope back to her. She read it, looked at me, and nodded her head.

“So,” I said a bit too loudly, “this, uh…this deal you’re offering me.”

“The one you just offhandedly turned down? The one that any person in his right mind would have jumped at? That deal?”

“You’re going to make me grovel, aren’t you?”

“You were a royal horse’s ass. Yes , I’m going to make you grovel.” “Okay—this is me, groveling. Grovel, grovel, grovel, I am an ungrateful butt-wipe, please forgive me, I am not worthy.” “Are you quite finished?” “Grovel, grovel.” I waited a moment, then said: “All done. Have I groveled enough?” “For now.” “I’ve reconsidered things.” “I’ll bet you have.” “I’ll do it.”

The look of massive relief on her face almost broke my heart. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, not saying a word.

For the second time that morning, I was almost afraid to breathe. I kept seeing those hulking shadowed figures over my bed, one of them whispering, You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into….

* * *

I’d figured on having an hour or so after breakfast to get ready, but that turned out not to be the case.

Barbara and I stepped out into the Cedar Hill sunshine and there, a few yards away on this side of the street, its side-window shades down, the elephant in the living room, sat the meat wagon.

Barbara checked her watch. “They’re prompt, I’ll give them that much.”

I looked from the wagon back to her. “You knew that it would be waiting for me?”

She said nothing; instead, she grabbed the envelopes from my hand and pointed to the one we’d written on: People are listening.

I nodded my understanding.

Barbara handed back the envelopes, then leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You be careful, okay?”

“I’m expected to leave straight from here? ” “Yes.” “You might have mentioned that earlier.” “Why, you need to rearrange your social calendar?” “Very funny.” “Sorry. I keep forgetting that you are a rock, you are an island.”

“Do me a favor,” I said, taking the cashier’s check from the envelope and handing it to her. “Hang on to this until I get back. No way am I carrying that on me.”

“I’ll keep it safe.” She slipped it into her purse. “Hey, when you get back, there’s a junior partner in my office I’d like to introduce you to. I think you and her would hit it off.” “What self-respecting lawyer would want to date a janitor?” She stared at me for a moment, then said: “I did. Once.” For a second, the ghost of Andy Leonard walked between us, then was gone. “I’m sorry I made that ‘social calendar’ crack,” she said. “Forget it.”

“No, no, I won’t.” She took hold of my hand. “I’m serious. You and I have lived here practically our entire lives, and in all that time I think I’ve seen you socially maybe a dozen times since high school, and even then it was by accident—bumping into you at a movie or a play or something. And you’re always alone. I think Kimberly would really like you. Come on, what have you got to lose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on! She’s a redhead. You know you’ve got a thing for redheads. Dianne was a redhead.”

“—a redhead who divorced me, thanks for bringing that up. Why do you even care? I don’t mean that to sound defensive, I really don’t, but why piss away any brain cells worrying about my social life or lack thereof?”

“That’s a dumb question and I don’t answer dumb questions. Doesn’t matter, anyway, because I’ve already set it up. You’re going out with her Saturday night.”

“Oh, I am, am I?”

“Yes, you am.” She squeezed my hand, then let go. “Drive Miss Driscoll home, come back safely, and take a chance on my matchmaking talents.” “Okay, fine.” I gave her a quick hug and started walking toward the wagon, then turned back and said: “Thank you.” “You be careful, okay?” “Will do.”

It didn’t occur to me until a few hours later that she had said something about being careful three times during that conversation.

The keys were in the wagon, as was a very expensive Montrachet mahogany coffin containing Miss Driscoll’s body. A note from Dobbs was taped to the steering wheel: Yes, she’s in there, but feel free to check in case you want to see what the inside of an $8,000.00 coffin looks like.

I decided to take his word for it.

I wondered if Dobbs had driven the wagon here, or if it had been one of the bulky shadows from last night, maybe one of their minions…or maybe the damn thing just materialized in the parking space.

You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

This had gone way past weird.

People are listening.

Whoever was orchestrating all of this seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else. A brighter man would have had the good sense to be paranoid. A brighter man would have realized that Barb had told him three times to be careful. A brighter man would have suspected there was something else she hadn’t told him. A brighter man would have known in the bottom of his gut that he was right smack in the middle of something really truly seriously goddamn scary.

Me, I took it far as “weird” and left it at that.

I started the meat wagon and turned on the radio. Our local radio station was just finishing up its morning news update.

“…died this morning at Riverside Methodist Hospital in Columbus, bringing the total number of deaths from Sunday night’s I-71 multi-car collision to seven.”

That little tidbit of information both registered and didn’t, as is the case with most things that come my way before noon. I scanned around until I found some music, then hit the road.

I have since come to the conclusion that my sole purpose in life is to serve as a warning to others.

6

I don’t like maps. All the lines give me a headache, and half the time I’m so busy trying to interpret the miniscule printing I either miss the exit I’m looking for or almost drive into a guardrail—or sometimes even another car whose driver was so busy trying to read his map that he didn’t see me coming.

Give me landmarks and I’m hell on wheels; give me a map and I turn into Forest Gump in Death Race 2000 .

Can you tell that driving is not my favorite thing in the world? Oh, with short distances I’m okay, but the fabled American Road Trip? Inwardly, I shriek in horror. Aside from the monotony, it gives you too long to think about things, and eventually your mind starts either sorting through useless trivia or dusting off memories best left in cold storage. Or, at least, mine does.

I’m good for about four or five hours cooped up inside a car, and then I need open space, food, and a bathroom—and that’s the best case scenario, when I’m traveling with other people who can share the drive and conversation. (The last actual road trip I’d taken with another person was during the summer after high school graduation, when a bunch of us drove to Cleveland to see an Emerson, Lake & Palmer concert as our big pre-college blowout.)