An Axis Oblique - Chapter Twelve

Kay let's do this. As promised, here's Chapter Twelve comin' at ya.


–– Twelve ––

Seventeen miles west of Maplewood, at approximately 10:54 the following night, Susan Laterna made the worst mistake of her young life. Had it been any other night, she might’ve been home, or at her boyfriend’s, fooling around and going too far before settling in for some late night TV. Anywhere really, other than Newbury Park––
Heading deeper into the trees, her mind ran across the unpleasantness. It began that afternoon, around a quarter to two. School wasn’t much more than formality senior year. She attended class often enough, to avoid suspension, but little else. Still, most days, she probably would have been there. But not today. Today was a free day––Mr. Petalli had the flu. For as long as there were teenagers and high schools to house them, a substitute teacher for last period meant only one thing:
_____
“I’m going home.”
“What?” Adam Lipinski, who spent more time in the weight room than the classroom, sounded like a child tantruming in the toy department. “I thought you were coming over.”
“Petalli’s not here, Adam. You expect me to waste that?”
“So you’re not coming…” he pouted. Clearly, the boy had an attention problem––or perhaps he simply disliked the idea of her making a decision without his consent.
“Just cut with me,” she offered.
“You know I can’t do that. How the hell can I skip my own make-up exam?”
“Fine then, we’ll meet up after.” Adam appeared to gnaw on her thoughtful compromise; then, as though stumbling onto his most brilliant idea ever, (which could well have been true), unzipped his tattered backpack…
“Well, long as you’re going, take this with you…” His hand emerged with a Ziplock baggie half-full of ‘oregano.’ Susan sighed, grabbing it before anyone noticed.
She didn’t enjoy carrying such things around, particularly at school, where she was a ripe target for certain faculty members with major league chips on their shoulders. Nevertheless, she’d done so willingly, blinded by her love for him; or fear of losing him; this tactless, witless, hopeless young stud with more muscles than brain cells, (and with whom she’d grown quite accustomed to making her girlfriends jealous).
“Keep your cell on,” he instructed. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m done.”
* * *
There was just something about a bag of weed in front of a pothead. Susan would never have considered herself to be such, but sitting there in her parent’s basement with Dr. Phil blathering on about teenage eating disorders, it wasn’t long before she was off and rolling.
She did not make a habit of smoking alone. Half the fun, she found, was the company, wild thought flowing aimless through a smoky green tint. Hours later, she would think herself careless. How hard would it have been, after all, to pack it all neatly away? In the end, it would have cost a cool forty-five seconds. She’d give the world to have those seconds back.
No one was supposed to be home, she had reasoned; not at that hour. No one was ever home at that hour. But this time. This one and only time, a cell-phone battery sat idly in her father’s desk drawer.
_____
At present, she was coming up on some lights. And sounds. Yes. Faint sounds of the street. Of civilization! Her feet were exhausted; her mind, still clouded. But the man with the wire-rimmed glasses was still unaccounted for, so she pushed ever forward.
*
Derek “The Duke” Laterna pulled into the driveway at around 3:00. He was not accustomed to being home quite so early; not on a Saturday, let alone the middle of the week. The street was bare, with only a few stray cars by the roadsides, and it suddenly occurred to him just how accommodating his neighborhood was to would-be thieves.
Might be time to upgrade to Home Shield, he thought, locking his near-new black Lexus SUV as he clomped up the walk. Stickers might be just as good, though, he reconsidered. The Duke was a fairly high roller, after all; or had been, once upon a time––when the stakes weren’t quite so high––and he had a whole lot less to lose.
_____
“Say that again, Manny, I…I can’t…my phone’s dying, fuck!”
In his lower-middle years, old Duke was a player of a much different sort. ‘STOCKS, BONDS, TRADES AND TIPS––whatever your business or pleasure, old Duke had you covered. ‘A strait shooter.’ It said so right on his business card.
The whole battery debacle didn’t help his hand-made reputation one bit. It implied incompetence, or at best, shady tactics. John Wayne didn’t use slight of hand, or slick manipulation to get what he wanted. John Wayne shot from the hip. Nevertheless, it was he, Derek, who had let it run dry. And he, the always reliable and doubly-prepared broker of the year, (three years running), who had failed to keep his spare charged.
_____ The man had a strange feeling from the get-go. An odd aura was about; something in the air, suggesting it’d been breathed recently by a younger, pinker set of lungs. He had no proof, of course; but sharp instincts were as important in his risky line of work as a well-cut suit, clean fingernails and a firm handshake.
“Hello!” he called out, not sure what to expect. The house remained quiet. His mind went from eased, to puzzled, to downright pissed upon stumbling, quite literally, onto a black nylon bookbag left carelessly in the middle of the floor.
“Susan…” He couldn’t believe she cut class again. At this rate, she’d be lucky to graduate. “Susan, where the hell are you?” he shouted, opening the basement door; but no light came from her cozy little sub-hideaway. Perhaps she was in school after all. Perhaps she just decided to leave her…books…at home…
In his younger years––before the trappings of marriage and family swallowed him whole––The Duke was a gambler. Not just a gambler. The gambler. Kenny Rogers even wrote a song about him. Back when he was at school in California––a time of loose morals, wet pussy and endless possibility, he was well known in certain circles. His love for excess was every bit as legendary. Back then, he understood with perfect clarity the seductive potency of pure youth mixed with freedom. He smoked, drank, fucked, shot, snorted…and oh boy, did he play. Even now, at any casino in Vegas old enough to remember, there were those that would rank him hands down the best there ever was.
As he climbed the winding staircase, thoughts of those turbulent times gained momentum. He wasn’t much of a dweller. Life was what happened now. Everything else was hazy recollection or narrow speculation. For most gamblers, there were hot streaks and cold. Some called it luck; others, karma. But no matter the name, he was starting to sense the tides slowly shifting.
“Susan!” he called out again, his feet inching nearer toward her bedroom door. It was that boy, who’d set him onto this tirade of nostalgia, switching his track from numbers and NASDAQ to those oh-so-precious days of yore––so precious, in fact, he dared not taint their memory with over-pontification. Even now he could just see him, slapping his hands all over her; shoving his dirty little prick into every orifice…
Twenty years ago it would have been him with some other girl’s clueless father. And that, if for no other reason, was why he had to put a stop to it. The battery had all but left his anxious mind. It was that punk’s pimply face he saw now. The quiet only convinced him more of their lustful misdeeds and, with his anger reaching a critical boil, The Duke drew both barrels––
Only to find nothing worth shooting for. No boy. No girl. Nothing but––
*
Green. Patches of it peaked out from under the melting snow. Susan believed it her favorite time of year. Years ago, she might have thought different. To a child, summertime in Maplewood was the epitome of every carefree fantasy. But the older she got, the more she’d come to appreciate the poetry of mid-term.
An oncoming car released her from her chronic-haze. Still clutching the roach, she ducked toward the library. So stoned…she thought, unable to keep the world from swaying. The car flew past without incident.
She’d had her fair share of experience with pot, but most, if not all was at night, and usually indoors. It refreshed her to be out in the bright sunshine––very bright, she couldn’t help but notice. Her eyes began to tear from its harsh intrusion and she fought to keep them open. A whimsical noise startled her out of yet another day-dream. Her cell phone was belting out Grease’s ‘Summer Nights,’ obnoxiously enough to call her lame-taste into question. Retrieving the purple flip-phone from her coat pocket, she checked the display:
Expecting Adam; not realizing barely an hour had elapsed, and not even he could fail that fast. “Oh shit…” She noted the number. Was it even remotely possible? Could her mother have come home to find the exposed baggie? Or worse?
*
Her father waited one more ring before hanging up. He was furious. Not only was the girl dumb enough to get mixed up with brainless dicks, she was also a stoner–– and not a very sly one at that. The bag sat out in plain sight atop the nightstand, taunting him. Half of him wanted to smoke it. The other half wanted to flush it down the toilet.
Perhaps he was a hypocrite. Scratch that. Most definitely. He didn’t care. Susan could live a thousand years and not go around the block near as many times as old Derek in his legendary prime. There were things he could say; stories he could tell her that would send her screaming to the nearest detox clinic; if he weren’t so afraid to relive them.
Stop it! he contained himself. Stop it right now or you’ll regret it. There were some skeletons that belonged in the closet. Some that, if ever allowed to taste the sweet light of day, would destroy all that they touched. He could not help his past at any rate. Escape it––he’d been trying all his life. But strangely enough, he found that the more time distanced him from deeds long done, the harder it was to forget.
Goddammit, this isn’t about me. It’s about a young girl spinning out of control. But was that it? Was it really? Or was it simply his control from which she was slipping? It didn’t matter. As long as she lived under his roof–– He stopped himself. All in good in time, he thought. For now it would have to wait. He was still on the clock, after all; and nothing––not even ungrateful, delinquent daughters, came before priority one. Now where did I leave that damn battery?
*
Dead. Susan tried one last time, moving toward the sounds of faint traffic, and still nothing. She decided that if she lived through this, she would take her father’s unrelenting advice and never leave home without a spare battery again.
Behind her, a twig snapped and she spun with a reflex she did not know she possessed. Darkness. At best she could see maybe ten feet in front of her. It could well have been wind, or a squirrel within earshot. Likely, but not definite. For all she knew, the man could be watching her right now from behind his wire-rimmed glasses…
_____
If she’d gotten home just fifteen minutes earlier, she would have run into her father, who himself, sacrificed nearly twenty in the hopes of catching her in the act. She rounded the street corner cautiously, hoping to find her mother’s car in the driveway instead of ‘The Duke’s’ imposing SUV, but to her surprise, the asphalt appeared unimpeded.
She entered the house quietly just the same, resisting the urge to snack, and went strait upstairs. Someone had been there alright. And not just someone. She could smell the faint residue of her father’s detestable aftershave. Since when did he come home in the middle of the afternoon?
She was already fearing the worst by the time she reached her closed bedroom door. To the untrained eye, everything looked reasonably undisturbed. But to hers, (despite the noticeable redness), all was slightly askew. She caught another whiff of his powerful scent––the man even smelled intimidating––then caught sight of the note:
I want to talk to you.
The six little words sent a shockwave through her full body-buzz. There was no way on earth she was going to like what he had to say. The only advantage she had was time; and if that was correct, perhaps there would be a way to soften the inevitable blow.
She doubted quite strongly that anything short of unscheduled surgery would shake the broker of the year, (three years running), off his proverbial high horse. In theory, all she had to do was stay out of face-to-face range during his prime parenting hours. In the morning, he generally left a good hour before she woke up. And as it was, the man had a ridiculous morning ritual that could doubtfully accommodate her.
That left only evenings. Most of the time, the two scarcely talked at all. After dinner, she would retreat upstairs––or down––where everything essential to teenage survival lay close at hand. But he was no better. After dinner they were lucky to get a full sentence out of him before he disappeared behind the walls of his office. Since childhood, she’d often speculate about what went on behind that beige, spackled fortress.
Once when just was about nine or ten, she found his bottom left drawer unlocked for the first time ever and inside, sifted inquisitively through a stack of Club and Swank magazines as well as a mysterious glass vile filled with sugar. After that, he was never so careless again. Perhaps it was because he knew; sensed that the contents had been disturbed in some way, much as she had with her bedroom.
‘Summer Nights’ filled the tiny pink sanctuary and she reached for her cell phone––(a Christmas gift from The Duke, incidentally)––in lieu of quality time. Nothing to worry about this time, however. She recognized the number all too well, and welcomed it in the wake of the alternative:
“Did you pass?”
“Who the hell needs English anyway?” Adam muttered. His patronizing, downright rude tone hadn’t changed an iota. Nevertheless, she found herself strangely comforted by his oafish self-absorption. Better to spend the evening with him, she thought, engaged in one-way conversations and passable sex, then even ten minutes with her father, who, with one damaging look, could effortlessly unravel her fragile esteem.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I was just trying to be supportive.”
“Oh. So it’s supportive you’re shooting for, huh? Well, how’s about you bring some of that over here?” She was grateful to be on the phone so he could not see her eyes rolling.
“Sounds like a plan,” she replied, still a trifle under the influence.
“Hurry up,” he snapped, effectively killing any chance for a mood. “I’ve had a bad day and I could use a little herbal refreshment.” Oh, how romantic. “Hello…?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I’m…I’m coming...”
“Well don’t take too long, okay? Weed’s not all I’m jonesin’ for...” The phone was dying out, and Susan took it as divine bullshit-intervention.
“Alright, I’ll see you soon.” Her reception was fading...
“What?”
“I’M COMING!” she screamed, then hung up. Packing everything as it’d been before, Susan Laterna took one last look at her comfy, pink bedroom. I’ll be back tonight, she thought. After all the tension’s dies down, and old Duke’s just too tired to deal with me… But she wouldn’t. She would never see this room; this house; or anything else tied to her sheltered young life as long as she lived.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. And left.
* * *
“So what brings you out here?” Susan looked up. Dirty. Hungry. Cold. And most of all, dazed––a lingering side effect from a joint smoked far too early.
“I beg your pardon?” she mumbled. The stranger laughed, shifting his peculiar gaze ever so slightly from the dark road in front of him, then back in a flash.
“Well, do you make a habit of wondering the neighborhood at night or…is this just my lucky day…?” This time his eyes remained straight ahead. Susan looked him curiously in the profile. She was trying to decide whether that was innocent wordplay or something more sinister. “Cold?”
“What?” she blurted, nervous. Again she saw that smile; so impeccably calm; like a kind man on a slow Sunday drive. But there was more to it. This may have been a big mistake, she thought.
“Are you cold?” he clarified. “I could turn up the heat...”
“No. No thanks, I’m fine.” But she was anything but. This was the stuff of horror movies, and her hazy mind raced through all sorts of unsettling scenarios best left un-conjured.
“On my way home myself…” he said after some uncomfortable silence. “Just out visiting...” His words, while still a tad mysterious, seemed harmless enough now. Perhaps it was merely lingering paranoia. Still, her caution felt eerily justified. The man, for his part, did little to put her racing mind at ease. He just kept his eyes staring directly ahead. Those dark, empty eyes behind a clunky pair of wire-rimmed glasses…
“Visiting?” She tried to sound calm.
“Yup. House call. I’m in furnace repair,” he said. “As you might imagine, this here’s my busy time. Don’t normally make evening runs, but…well it’s cold out there…and this customer’s been loyal for near twenty-five years...”
“Awfully nice of you…” Her voice sounded smoother. In all likelihood, he was every bit on the level; just a kind citizen who saw someone by the side of the road; someone who needed help. So he stopped. What was it her father always said? ‘Nine times outta ten the simplest explanation’s the one to bet on...’ Yeah. This explanation was simple enough. But what about time number ten?
“…and, well, far be it from me to turn my back on a man in need…” The stranger was finishing his thought just in time for her to tune back in. “No, sir, not me…not how I was raised…” He shuffled. “Guess it also applies to um…women...” Wait a minute. What was that? Was it her imagination, or had the mysterious Samaritan looked her up and down when he thought she hadn’t noticed? “Speaking of which…you still haven’t answered my question, hon...” Question? Was there a question?
“Pardon?” It took her a moment to sort through her anxiety. It felt more like an hour. “Oh. I, um…got into a little fight with my, um…boyfriend...” she mumbled.
Again, the driver smiled, almost undetectable, as though he did not wish her to see. “Boyfriend, huh? So was it a ‘fight’ fight or an argument-like? He didn’t––”
“No. No, nothing like that. Just a…friendly little…disagreement…”
“A lovers quarrel, eh? Well I’m not surprised. A pretty little thing like you could sure make a man’s blood boil over.” As hard as she tried, Susan could not seem to steer the conversation. Something was happening inside her; something beyond mere paranoia; beyond irrational panic. This was intuition.
“We’re coming up on my neighborhood,” she lied. “I’d just as soon not have my father see a strange car drop me off. You can let me out here.”
“Somethin’ I said, honey? What’s a matter, don’t like my company?”
“It’s fine,” she said, life draining out of her. “I really do appreciate the lift but…”
“I don’t see any houses around here. Sure you’re not just tryin to get rid’a me?”
“Please,” she managed. “We’re close enough. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“Careful now. “I’m libel to take offence.”
“My father knows I’m out here,” she blurted. “He’s waiting...”
“Oh I’ll just bet he is. Who wouldn’t be? I sure know I’ve been. Hell, if I was your daddy, don’t think I’d ever let you outta my sight...”
A single tear; one that she’d been struggling to suppress for the last quarter-mile, escaped down her flustered cheek. She wanted to let it out. All of it. She wanted to scream for all to hear, but at the same time, did not intend to award him the satisfaction.
The driver took notice. “Mmm, yummi. Now here comes the fear. That part’s always my favorite. I’m hopin’ to see more tears, though…think maybe you can…?” For the first time since she’d so stupidly gotten into his rusty old car, the stranger turned his head ninety degrees and looked directly at her; almost…in her… “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m like a kid at Christmas. Patience, that there’s the name of the game. ‘Sides, I’m sure there’ll be plenty’a tears to come soon enough.” Then he laughed a cruel, sadistic laugh.
Susan had never known true terror. Not with every card on the table, until that very moment. It seemed to entice him all the more. But with all his sly mannerisms, and subtle expressions…he had not noticed…what she was doing…
“You know, I think you girls just get prettier and prettier with time. Yes, sir, I’m not ashamed to say it…” On her right, she could see the outskirts of Newbury Park whizzing by. That might be okay, she thought. Not as good as a row of houses lighting up the night, but sufficient. She had her cell after all; (low battery not withstanding). “But who are you kidding anyhow, sweat pea?” The voice was like a distant echo. She was thinking now; fighting her crumbling synapses and mental malaise; fighting for her life. And all the while, her trembling fingers fumbled away inside her jacket... “Girls like you––sooner or later, you’ve all got it comin.’ Acting all ‘look at me’ and defiant. Swimming with bloody gums in shark-infested waters...”
Her fingers searched harder. And finally, just as she’d all but given up hope of a happy ending… “Oh now what’s a matter? You were being so chatty. Don’t tell me the ol’ cat’s got your cute little––” In a flash, she grasped what she’d been fishing for; a once-opened, once-sprayed can of mace disguised as Binacca; (another gift from dear old Dad, to which she’d rolled her eyes in reluctance). She had no idea whether it would work or, more importantly, whether her own reflexes would meet the challenge in their current condition. But it was this or nothing. And now or never.
“Ahh! Goddam BITCH!” Success. Her surprisingly steady hand performed beautifully under unusual pressure. Good to know, she thought; for next time. And then, in another moment of divine inspiration, she did what she had only seen in movies, with no idea whether it would work. The man was in agony, forced to remove the ugly pair of glasses, which gave his otherwise bland face its only personality, rubbing his tearing eyes fiercely with one hand, clutching the wheel with the other.
The car, now out of control, screeched to a near-stop as she gripped the hand-brake and pulled with all her tiny might. The blinded stranger who, to her relief, did not want to die himself, hit the brake and finished what she’d started.
“You just bought yourself a very painful exit, little girl,” he fumbled on, trying not to relinquish control of the twisted situation. With unyielding determination, his hand rubbed and rubbed his swollen eyes under his glasses. The other was off the wheel, swatting the air beside him in a feeble attempt to grab her…
But Susan was in the driver’s seat now––(metaphorically) ––and, with fresh optimism, she unclicked her seatbelt and kicked the passenger door until it burst open–– She had only a dozen seconds at most to catch her breath and assess her desolate surroundings... ‘Operation Survival’ was now into phase two.
Her legs were unfortunately much shakier than her hands as she hobbled towards the dark woods, looking back only once; just long enough to see the man reattach his glasses and spill out of the vehicle…
_____
The sounds of traffic; a clearing in the woods were upon her at last. And Susan moved steadily toward it. Her heart began to beat slower. Only moments before, she was nearly convinced it would thump right out of her chest. Her mind’s dull edges were sharpening too, and the finer details of her chilly surroundings came slowly into focus...
The cars were much closer. Almost on top of her. So close in fact, she could make out the song snippet blasting from some young punk’s radio as he zoomed by. It was over. A few dozen steps forward and she would be among people. All she had to do was flag someone down. If necessary, she was prepared to step into oncoming traffic…
The beeping noise caught her by understated surprise–– It took a second to convince her it wasn’t just in her head. But there it was again; choppy. The battery, it seemed, while nearly drained, was not quite dead after all. What to do…
Just a little further. ‘Summer lovin. Had me a blast…’ The tune cut through her bulky coat pocket, bouncing off every snowy stone and twig. Shut the fuck up, she pleaded. Just a few more steps… ‘Summer lovin. Happened so fast…’ A breeze flew across her face, and the phone beeped again. Without thinking, she pulled it from her coat just to––
“There’s a good girl...” A cold voice panted into her quivering ear. It was no hallucination. A hand slapped sharply over her mouth, muffling her spiritless scream. The phone fell hard to the ground, sending the mostly-dead battery off in a separate direction. “Now we’re gonna have us some fun, aren’t we…?” he said, licking the back of her sweaty neck… “Nearly forgot how rewarding a good chase can be…”
With one final burst of panic, she swung an arm wildly and slapped at his unseen face. Something, which she could not see, snapped neatly free and fell listlessly to the ground. His grip, nonetheless, did not waver; only tightened; his swift, panting breath all over her soft, exposed skin. It was the last thing she would ever feel––
before the world as she knew it, fell forever in darkness.




One of my all-time faves, I must say. One more chapter to go before Volume One is complete. It's a long one. But first, I've got more blogging to get to. I must get this Lost-gasm off my chest--next time.

D.A.