Andrew Kaufman - The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted - A Psychological Thriller

“Where was it?’

Sully paused. “Shoved up her ass.”

Chapter Forty-One

Up and down. Up and down. My life had turned into a sickness seesaw, one episode following on the heels of another. I was tired, depressed, and fed up. Fed up with my mother, fed up with my life.

Fed up with everything.

During the spring semester of my senior year, another round of symptoms hit, this time so severe that I ended up missing school for several days. But being at home wasn’t exactly restorative, so I went back to class as soon as I could; although, I was hardly up for it.

It was my first day back. On my way out of the building, I stopped in the bathroom, gazed in the mirror, and barely recognized myself: dark circles under dull and lifeless eyes, pale skin surrounding them. I looked like the walking dead.

Out of the building and through the courtyard.

“Patrick?”

Without turning around, I recognized Tracy Gallagher’s voice. If there had been a rock to crawl under, I would have been there in a heartbeat. Of all the times for her to see me. I pretended not to hear her, kept my eyes ahead, kept walking.

“ Patrick. ”

I turned around and saw the shock register on her face, but I was equally bewildered. It had been years since she’d spoken so much as a word to me—not since the social order had shifted.

“Patrick?” she said once more, head jutted forward now, as if trying to see if it was really me. “What happened? You look horrible.”

“Thanks.” I looked at the ground.

“No, I…” A bashful smile, pushing her hair behind one ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Really. It’s just…are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said, and then after my lie, “Why?”

She moved closer, still staring at me. “You don’t look like it.”

I started feeling dizzy and nauseous, stumbled to catch my balance. Tracy lunged forward and caught me just in time.

“Patrick,” she said, “ what’s going on?”

I turned my head away, tears filling my eyes.

She placed a soft, gentle hand on my shoulder; still, I couldn’t look at her.

“Patrick?”

“I’m fine.” But my voice broke, despite my attempts to sound strong.

She leaned in. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Eyes back toward the ground now, I shook my head, saw a lone tear splash onto my shoe.

She placed her hand under my chin and gently pulled my head up so we were face to face, then looked into my eyes; hers were so gentle, so worried… and in a soft, low voice, said, “What is she doing to you?”

It was the first time in so long that someone had showed concern, actually cared, let alone touched me with a loving hand.

And it was her.

I lost it.

She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me in close, her shoulder muffling my sobs, neither of us saying anything for a long time. It felt warm, like coming home, and in that instant, there was no social order, no division, no time that had passed between us. Just her and me. I wanted to tell her everything. I felt like I could.

The sound of screeching tires startled us both.

A car came driving up, kids screaming and laughing, horn honking. I looked inside and saw a cluster of letterman’s jackets and bright, attractive faces.

“C’mon, Trace, we don’t have all day!” one of the Jackets yelled to her.

She glanced at me, then at him. “In a minute, Rob. I’m in the middle of something.”

“You can pick up with Pasty Face later,” he said. “Not like he’s got anywhere to go except home to his loony tunes mother.”

Laughter all around from the Jackets, the dagger hitting me square in the chest.

“Shut the hell up, Rob!” she said, then turned back to me.

“Jeeze!” he said. “Sorry, babe! Didn’t mean to interrupt your charity work.”

Dagger.

More laughter.

I looked at the Jackets, looked at her. Saw white and felt another wave of nausea sweep through me. Then panic. Something inside told me to run as fast and far as I could.

And that’s just what I did.

I made it as far as the shrubs about twenty yards away before I threw up. Heard a roar of hysterical laughter from the Jackets.

“Check it out! Pasty Face is bush-barfing!” One of them said.

More laughter.

“What’s the matter, Pasty? Get a look at yourself in the mirror?”

Laughter again.

Then, they all starting singing, “ Tracy and Pasty sitting in a tree!”

The laughter grew louder; it struck me like wicked thunder. I bowed my head and squeezed my eyes shut, forcing tears to roll down my cheek. Wanting it all to go away.

Then I heard tires squealing, looked up, and they were all gone.

Tracy, too.

Chapter Forty-Two

CJ was right next to me in the passenger seat, but so lost in thought that she might as well have been a hundred miles away. The conversation with Sully and his frightening news about Bill had managed to upstage our disagreement, her annoyance now replaced by fear.

I wasn’t exactly feeling so great myself. Reality hit hard: who we were dealing with, what we were up against, and that Bill could still be alive.

I took my eyes off the road every few minutes to check on CJ. Finally, I said, “What are you thinking about?”

She kept her gaze straight ahead, but I doubted she was seeing much. “Three guesses.”

“Bill?”

“Smart boy.”

“Smartass.”

That made her smile. Just a little.

“Care to share your insights?” I asked.

“Just that Jean may not have been so crazy after all, at least where Bill was concerned.”

“She seemed to know a lot about him,” I offered.

“Yeah. I wonder how.”

We stopped at a hole-in-the-wall barbecue/beer joint on the outskirts of Virginia, Texas called Shea’s Hog Heaven. Nothing heavenly about it, but the hog part certainly fit. Not exactly what I’d call Texas dining at its best—not even at its worst. Maybe somewhere just beneath that.

I watched CJ mindlessly stab at her food, never once bothering to take a bite. Finally, she looked up at me with deadpan eyes and said, “This shit looks like shoe leather. I can only imagine what it tastes like.”

I stifled a laugh. She was still grumpy, but her dry humor seemed to be making a comeback. It was a good sign.

She tossed her fork onto the plate, rolled her eyes, then said, “Not that I’d eat it even if it was suitable for human consumption.”

I gazed around the room. The company wasn’t much better than the food. In one corner sat a robust dude who seemed to be wearing his meal more than eating it. In another corner, two guys covered in tattoos were shooting pool. From the looks on their faces, you’d’ve thought they were solving world hunger. Serious business, that pool.

“A psycho,” CJ finally said. “Guess it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.”

It was my turn to move my food around the plate. “I’m really starting to wonder if we should pursue this guy.”

“We can’t just quit now. It’s not an option. Not at this point.”

“The man cut his own mother’s larynx out and shoved it up her ass. Do you really need a better reason than that?”

“Not an option,” she repeated, then picked up her fork, went back to stabbing her food. “We’re already invested in this.”

“Invested?”

More stabbing, now, with an irritated look on her face. “You know what I mean.”