I go back down the steps, out to the garage, and check the places where I hid random bricks of cash. They’re all there. I go back inside the house, pour myself a shot of whiskey, down it in one gulp, head back up the stairs, and climb into bed with Lissie.
Chapter 27
“Jesus, Buddy, how much did we drink last night?”
I wake up, startled.
“What?”
“I’m so groggy. Are you?”
According to the clock on the end table, it’s nearly eleven. “Yeah, I feel like I’m in a fog. We were pretty lit.”
“My God, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“I should have made you stop.”
She sat up, tried to focus. “Oh, shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m still wearing my nightie.”
“So?”
“We didn’t make love.”
“Oh. You’re right. We must have passed out.”
She smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “Well, we’re not used to so much excitement. But Buddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Congratulations, superstar. I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks, hon.”
Lissie gets out of the bed and stumbles slightly on her way to the bathroom, reminding me of Jinny, and how she stumbled when heading to the closet to fetch my money. God, was that just yesterday?
“Oh, God,” Lissie moans from inside the bathroom. “Sorry, but I’m going to be in here awhile.”
“Okay, I understand.”
“I feel like a beanbag that’s been tossed one time too many.”
I hear her retch, and then throw up. I run to the door. “You okay, baby?”
“Not feeling so good. I must have been plastered last night. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
“No, you were great. You remember dinner, right? And the concert?”
“Oh, my God, yes! And Perkins! I remember him walking me to the door.”
“Right.”
She vomits again. “God, I’m sorry, Buddy. I hate for you to see me like this.”
I feel guilty as hell about the sedative and ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. Please, just go downstairs or somewhere you can’t hear me. I really don’t want to gross you out.”
“Okay, honey. I hope you feel better soon.”
I feel like a complete shit heel. I’m happy about the million dollars in the garage, but I keep remembering Pete Rossman in the jet yesterday, telling me what was in the fine print of the Wish List Agreement:
“Your life.”
I rush downstairs to the kitchen and fire up my computer, get online, and type in www.wishlist.bz. When the website loads, I look for the Agreement.
I find the little box that lets you read the fine print, and click it. I scroll up, down, reading the words, searching for loopholes. Specifically, I wonder if I can make new wishes to cancel out the old ones. But I’m no attorney. I can’t make sense of all the legalese in the agreement. I start a new list and type the words Never Harm Lissie, and a message comes on the screen:
BUDDY, YOUR FOUR WISHES HAVE BEEN GRANTED.
IF YOU’D LIKE TO CREATE FOUR WISHES FOR LISSIE,
PLEASE CONTINUE. IF NOT, DELETE THIS WISH, AND
LEAVE THE SITE IMMEDIATELY.
Holy shit! I erase the wish and back myself off the website. I don’t want Lissie involved with these bastards any more than she already is. Nor do I want more wishes that have to be repaid! I just want to be left alone with my wife and our life and our million dollars. I don’t want to get arrested for killing my boss, and I don’t want to be linked in the killing of Sally and Tom, and I don’t want to know what made Jinny Kidwell agree to have sex with me. I wonder what the chances are that Rudy and the company will let me do my paybacks and leave us alone. It makes sense they would. If I participate, and do everything they ask, they should be willing to let me walk away.
Then I think about Richie and wonder what I’ll do if they ask me to kill someone.
At that precise moment, there’s a knock at the kitchen door. I jump up and look through the peephole.
And see Rudy.
Chapter 28
“What are you doing here? Lissie’s home!”
Rudy and I are on the porch. I’ve got the door closed, hoping Lissie doesn’t come downstairs before I can get rid of him.
“How’s she feeling this morning?” he says.
“You know about the sedative?”
“I know about everything.”
“Then you should know she’s a bit under the weather.”
“No need to bite my head off, Champ, I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Look, I just want out.”
“Out of what?”
“This whole thing. The Wish List. I want out.”
“I feel your pain.”
“No, seriously, Rudy. What can I do to get my life back?”
“Give us two paybacks.”
Hearing him say that reminds me of last night.
“What happened to Richie?”
“You’ll be pleased to know he came through with flying colors.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Amazing what you can do when your life depends on it.”
“Will you really let us go if we do what you ask?”
“Why wouldn’t we? You can’t have an agreement unless both parties fulfill their promises.”
He’s right! For the first time since meeting the guy, I’m beginning to get a glimmer of hope that everything that’s happened can somehow be swept under the rug. Because what he just said is a hundred percent true: if both parties signed an agreement, and we both agreed to fulfill four requests, doing so should terminate the relationship. I’ve received four wishes, paid back two. It’s a simple math equation.
Then he says, “You ever been in a fight?”
“What?”
“A fist fight.”
“You mean, for real? A real fight?”
“Yeah.”
“No, of course not. I don’t know a thing about fighting.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I signed you up to fight a guy tonight.”
“You what?”
“Tonight at eight. We’ll pick you up at seven.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“You know how you were asking me about the group payback last night?”
“What about it?”
“This is a perfect example. A bunch of people wished to see a fight between two guys with no training or experience.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Who would waste a wish on seeing a crappy fight?”
“It’s not gonna be a crappy fight. It’s gonna be a hell of a fight! And my money’s on you, Champ!”
“I’m totally out of shape. There’s no way I can win a fight. I can barely climb the stairs in my own house.”
“You just need a little confidence.”
“It’s not possible. I can’t fight, and don’t want to.”
“There are three motivations working in your favor,” Rudy says, “and I’ll tell you two of them now.”
I’m staring vacantly. I don’t believe in fighting. I’m terrified of confrontation. I can’t stand the sight of blood. I once signed a petition to ban boxing! Last night, watching Tom punch Richie’s face, I almost threw up. Jesus, it just hit me: Tom and Sally are dead.
Because their daughter’s killer’s mother wished it.
Rudy says, “Pay attention, Champ. Motivation number one is you’ll have your third payback out of the way.”
“You never told me what the second one was.”
“I’ll tell you tonight. The second motivation is even stronger. I can’t wait to tell you.”
“Just say it, okay? Say it and get out of here, before Lissie sees us.”
“Okay, okay! Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I was
just trying to build suspense. The second motivation is, this is a fight to the finish.”
“What?”
“Ain’t it great? I mean, two pansies are gonna fight until one of them is pronounced dead.”
“No! You can’t! Please don’t make me do this. Wait—you actually can’t force me!”
“Excuse me?”
“You said so yourself.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Yesterday you said you don’t make people do things they don’t want to do. You give them two, sometimes three choices, like with Jinny.”
“I said that?”
“You did. Look, give me another choice. What’s my alternative?”
He looks confused. “Well, if I said it, I guess I’m bound.”
“Okay, then. So give me something else.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. When we pick you up tonight, I’ll give you an alternative, if you still want one.”
“I’ll want one.”
“We’ll see. But in case you choose to fight, bring a pair of shorts and tennis shoes, unless you want to fight barefoot.”
“Are you listening to me? I’m not gonna fight tonight!”
“I heard you, Champ. Jeez, I’m not deaf. I’m just saying, in case you change your mind, that’s what you should bring to wear.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“See you at seven, Champ.”
“Stop calling me that!”
Chapter 29
Lissie is still groggy from the sedative, but with each hour that passes, her condition improves. Perkins told me to put the whole capsule in her drink, but half that amount would have been more than enough.
I’ve got a good excuse for going out tonight. I tell her Perkins is coming to pick me up for a meeting with my new client.
“When am I going to meet this Thomas Jefferson?” she says. “Will he be in the car tonight?”
“No, Perkins is taking me to the airport to meet his private jet. I think I’m meeting the CEO, too. But we shouldn’t be out too late.”
“I’m not used to these late night meetings. Is this going to be a regular thing?”
“No. It’s just getting acquainted stuff.”
By four in the afternoon, Lissie has recovered enough to wonder why I’m acting so strangely. “I can’t remember you ever being more attentive, and yet you’re completely distracted. What gives?”
I’m attentive because if worse comes to worse I could get beat to death tonight, in which case I’ll never see her again. I’m distracted for the same reason.
“I’m just worried about you,” I say. “And nervous about my meeting tonight.”
“You’ll be great,” she says.
Actually, distracted isn’t the best word to describe how I’m feeling. What I am is scared shitless. It’s clear to me that Rudy wants me to fight, so the choice he gives me will probably be something worse than killing someone (or being killed) in the boxing ring.
But what could be worse than that?
At seven o’clock Rudy and Perkins pick me up and take me to an abandoned warehouse a half mile behind the airport at Standiford Field. There are two huge luxury busses in the parking lot, and two bouncers guarding the front door.
“What’s in there?” I ask Rudy.
“The cage.”
“What cage?”
“The one you’re fighting in.”
The cold sensation floods my body again. I know I’m pale with fear. I try to speak, but my voice comes out in a whisper. I swallow and try again. “What about our deal?”
“We’ll get you in the dressing room, get your hands wrapped, and then I’m going to show you a quick video of your opponent. After that, if you still don’t want to fight, I’ll give you an alternate choice.”
“Okay.”
Chapter 30
The dressing room is nothing more than a woman’s bathroom with two stalls and an oversized powder room that includes two sinks, a large mirror, a fabric couch, and a small Formica table with two scuffed, wooden stools, one of which I’m sitting on. On the counter, next to a sink, is a small monitor. Standing over me, applying tape to my hands is Gus, a grizzled old guy with cauliflower ears and a hopelessly broken nose. Gus, I’m told, is my cut man.
While Gus wraps my hands, Rudy and one of the bouncers hook up a video camera to the TV monitor. They’re watching something on the screen, but their broad backs are blocking my view. At one point the bouncer guy turns and looks at me and shakes his head, which I take as a bad sign.
“All right,” Rudy says. “Now rewind it a bit. Okay, that’s good. Hit the pause button. Okay, that’ll work.”
They both turn to face me, but they’re still blocking the screen. When Gus says he’s done with my hands, Rudy asks him to step outside for a few minutes. When he opens the door to leave I can hear people yelling and chanting.
“The natives are getting restless,” Rudy says.
The door closes and Rudy tells the bouncer guy to cut the lights.
Before he starts rolling the tape, Rudy says, “You wanted me to tell you the second thing you’ve done to pay us back.” He gestures to the monitor. “It’s this.”
The next three minutes are the worst of my life.
Afterward, when the guy flips the lights back on, the face I see in the mirror staring back at me is tear-streaked and filled with grief. I jump to my feet and run to the toilet and puke. I fall to my knees, sobbing, and puke again. I roll around on the floor, crying, moaning like a wounded animal. Minutes pass while my mind works to comprehend what I saw on the screen. When I finally get to my feet, there are two things I know beyond a shadow of a doubt: first, my life, as I knew it, is over. Second, I’m going to kill my opponent in the cage tonight, or die trying.
Rudy enters the doorway and calls out to me. “You ready to fight?”
I come out of the stall and stumble into him. He backs up a few steps and we’re in the powder room again. I’m blind with rage, but I want to take my fury to an even higher level. I motion to the TV monitor.
“Play it again,” I say. “In slow motion.”
Rudy smiles broadly. “Whatever you say, champ!”
He rewinds the tape, presses a button, and nods to the bouncer to cut the lights.
I’m standing three feet from the screen, bracing my hands on the countertop. As the tape starts, I hear a loud drumming sound and look around to find the source.
It’s me.
I’m tapping my fingers on the countertop, uncontrollably.
Like Jinny’s husband, Pete Rossman had done.
I turn my attention back to the screen…
Chapter 31
The quality of the video is excellent. There’s a time signature on the bottom right. It starts at 1:05 a.m. with a shot of me, Rudy and Richie getting in the car and driving away. There’s a slight jerk where they spliced the tape, and now it’s 1:09 am, and the same camera picks up a man entering the garage. He’s dressed in black, wearing a black ski mask similar to the ones Rudy and Richie had on. He removes a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door to my home. The camera switches to a view from the upstairs hallway, where we see the man climbing up the stairs. He pauses at our bedroom door, knocks, then waits a few seconds, then slowly opens the door and enters.
Another camera picks up the action in the bedroom. At this point it hasn’t dawned on me that someone has gone to the trouble to place all these cameras in my home and garage, and they’ve obviously been there long enough to be tested for lighting and angles. It also hasn’t dawned on me yet that the garage cameras would have revealed all the places I hid the cash.
What I do understand with total clarity is that a man is in my bedroom, standing over Lissie’s sleeping, helpless body. Though it’s dark in the room, I can see him push her shoulder a couple of times to see if she moves. She doesn’t. Then he walks over to the doorway and turns on the light switch.
With the lights on, and the time showing 1:
12 a.m., a camera directly over the bed takes over and shows the man kissing Lissie’s face. The ski mask proves to be a hindrance to his intimacy, so he removes it, along with the rest of his clothing. Then he kisses her passionately, and starts removing her nightie.
The tape jumps again and it’s 1:16 a.m. The man is performing oral sex on my wife’s comatose body. I feel a white hot boil in the pit of my stomach. My heart aches as I watch her rape take place. Lissie trusted me and I want to die. I gave her a sedative, rendered her helpless, only to be violated by this human pond scum, and there is no pit deep enough to hide my anguish. I’m vaguely aware of the moaning sound coming from my mouth. I can taste the tears and snot dripping into my mouth and I want to fucking die.
I’ve never felt so powerless, never loathed myself to this degree. I want it to stop. If only I could go back in time and somehow make it stop. But it won’t stop. In fact, the brutalization of my wife’s helpless body has only just begun.
The tape jumps again and it’s 1:28 a.m. The maggot is doing my wife missionary style. Every now and then he turns and winks at the camera. He stops for a minute to arrange her body in the most degrading pose the perverted mind of a rapist could imagine. Then he brutally assaults her.
He finishes quickly, and lies down beside her, spent. But he’s not finished. Oh no. In fact, he’s just getting started.
The tape jumps again, and it’s 2:25 a.m. He’s doing my sacred Lissie doggie style, slapping her ass, pulling her hair, mugging for the camera. The tape jumps again, three more times over the next two hours, but I can’t share the unspeakable details of what he does to my poor Lissie.
But I know who he is.