Dying Memories (6 page)

Chapter 15

It was a quarter past four when Bill left the prison. He wasn’t going back to the
Tribune
. They had filler on the victim, Kent Forster, all set to run, and besides, he wanted to take a shower and change into some clean clothes before he saw Emily again. He decided discretion was the better part of valor, and turned off his cell phone in case Jack tried calling.

When he arrived at his apartment he stripped off his clothes and stood under the hot shower for almost a half hour, his mind drifting as he thought about Emily and how easy things were with her. Even with what had happened to her when she was younger, she was able to be so positive with every aspect of her life, and it was a quality Bill strongly admired.

After toweling off, Bill found a clean tee shirt and pair of jeans to put on. He just couldn’t keep from smiling as he thought about how ridiculously low maintenance Emily was, especially compared to Karen. There was no way Karen would ever had gone out in public with her hair in a ponytail or without any make up on. His smile tightened as he tried to imagine Karen wearing the same jeans and grungy sweatshirt in a restaurant that Emily had worn that first night he met her. That never would’ve happened, not at least until hell froze over.

He had lived with Karen for three years, and every morning she had to spend an hour getting her hair and make up perfect. A golden-haired beauty who, except for being shortchanged by a few inches in height, would’ve made it as a fashion model, and that was a disappointment she never quite got over. Most of the time Bill thought they were happy together, but there was an underlying dissatisfaction about her. Usually she’d try to hide it from him, and a good part of the time she seemed to genuinely care for him, but in the end she told him she wanted more out of life. More than a low rent apartment in Medford, more than weekend trips to Maine and Vermont, and much more than what he was able to give her on his salary.

“”I’m sorry, Bill,” she had told him, “but you must’ve known this day was coming.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched as she left. A few days later he heard that she had moved in with her new boyfriend, the founder of a dot com startup who had enough sense to cash out before the bubble burst and owned a multi-million dollar townhouse on Boston’s waterfront.

It was always like this. Every time he allowed himself to dwell on Karen and their breakup it would end with him being swallowed up into a morass of bitterness and hurt. It was ridiculous, especially given how well things were going with Emily, but there he was again, slipping away as he burned with anger.

He locked up his apartment, barely aware of what he was doing or what was going on around him. He knew at some level his rage had to do with all the bizarre shit with his dad, and that one of these days he would have to seriously work on it, but for now he’d just let himself stew.

Earlier he had parked out in front instead of the back parking lot expecting to stop off at his apartment for only a quick visit, and as he stepped outside he was too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice the beat-up white cleaning service van that pulled up to the curb, or the large muscle-bound man moving quickly towards him from behind. It was only when the side door of the van slid open and he heard a rush of footsteps racing towards him that Bill became aware that something was very wrong.

Chapter 16

Before Bill could turn around he was hit hard from behind, the force of the blow sending him tumbling head first into the van. Hands reached out and pulled him deeper inside. Someone stepped into the vehicle after him—the guy who had hit him, then the side door was slammed shut and the van was driving away,

Two sets of hands pulled him off the floor so that he was sitting on a bench between their owners. To his right was the same man who had pushed him from behind. To his left could’ve been the guy’s clone. Both of them were in their late twenties, big and muscle-bound, with thick necks and short buzz cuts. The two of them were even dressed identically; gray suits that stretched tightly across their chests, dark shades to hide their eyes, and steel-tipped shoes that could cause serious damage if needed. The starkest difference between them was that the one on his left had a thin goatee, wore diamond stud earrings, and smiled in a smug fashion as if he were amused by everything that was happening, while the other one was clean-shaven and had a hard, all-business attitude about him. They made him think of the Star Trek episode with the evil Spock, but goatee or clean shaven, he knew these two ox-sized thugs were both cut from the same cloth. In that moment all the rage that had swallowed him up earlier was gone and replaced by an icy cold panic.

Bill tried to rip his arms free from the two goons he was sandwiched between, but he couldn’t budge them. Their fingers dug deep into his flesh, and held him as tightly as if they were steel bands. He looked up then and saw the man sitting across from him. This man, Simon, was older than the other two. Somewhere in his forties. He was also much thinner and smaller, his gray suit tailor cut, the material significantly more expensive. What struck Bill was how pink his face was, how his ears were almost pointy, and his eyes; how they looked no bigger than if a pair of dimes had been pasted onto his face. Bill couldn’t even see any white in those eyes; it was as if they were only big enough to hold his pupils.

“It’s been a long time, Jeffrey,” Simon said, his narrow mouth crooked and twisting into a thin mirthless smile.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bill said, his throat constricted, his voice barely a whisper.

Simon showed an exaggeratedly perplexed look as he put a hand to one of his pointy ears. “You’ll have to speak up,” he said. “I can’t hear you.”

Bill sat still as he struggled to compose himself. Then he repeated how he didn’t know what this man was talking about. “And tell your asshole buddies to let go of me,” he added with a forced bravado.

Simon’s smile shifted subtly to express his disappointment in Bill. He made a
tsk-tsk
noise over Bill’s choice of vulgar language.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Bill insisted.

“Please,” Simon said, using the same sort of weary tone as if he were talking to a troublesome child.

“Just let me out of here,” Bill said, his voice choked. “You do that and I won’t call the police about this misunderstanding.” That got the goateed thug to chuckle. A cold trickle of sweat worked its way down Bill’s back. His voice rose with a newfound panic as he added emphatically, “I’m telling you you’ve got the wrong guy!”

“Lower your voice,” Simon commanded softly. “Shouting won’t do you any good. Quite the opposite actually. This vehicle is soundproof and all you’ll accomplish is annoying my two associates. And no, Jeffrey, we do not have the wrong person. So quit this childish charade.”

“I’m not Jeffrey—”

“Shut up.” He said this as softly as everything else he had said, but it stopped Bill cold.

“I know who you are,” Simon continued. “You’re Jeffrey Vozzmer. And you’ll be let out of the car only after you tell me what I want to know.”

“You’re wrong—” Bill started to say, but the clean-shaven thug on his right let go of his arm long enough to tap him on the ear with his fist, and the blow shut Bill up and left his head ringing. The ring the thug wore on his index finger had cut him and Bill felt a hot stickiness spread around where he was hit. He didn’t look away, though, and kept his focus on Simon who continued to stare at him with his cold, black, dime-sized eyes, his expression empty of emotion. The other two thugs were also staring at him. Time just seemed to stop. Bill could barely stand it.

“Tell me what I want to know,” Simon finally demanded.

“Fuck, I swear, I don’t know what that is.”

“Yes you do, Jeffrey. We’re not idiots here. Tell me what I want to know and this will all be over.”

“Check my wallet,” Bill pleaded. He was nauseous, his left ear throbbing. “My driver’s license will show you that I’m not this Jeffrey Vozzmer.”

“And what would that prove?” Simon asked. “That you took the precautions to be carrying a fake ID? Please, Jeffrey, we’re not amateurs. You should know that.”

“This is all fucked up,” Bill insisted weakly. “I’m not Jeffrey Vozzmer. I never heard that name before.”

Simon ignored Bill, said patiently, “Tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know what you want to know.”

The same behemoth who had punched him before raised an eyebrow, asking an unspoken question. Simon, sitting opposite Bill, took his time before shaking his head.

“No, I don’t believe that will be necessary,” he said. “I’m sure we can facilitate Jeffrey to talk without having to resort to any further violence, even if it won’t be of his own volition.” Then to Bill, “One last time, tell me what I want to know.”

Numbly, Bill shook his head. “I swear, I don’t know what that is,” he said.

Simon sighed and picked up a small leather case that was on the seat next to him. He opened the case carefully, almost lovingly, and took from it a hypodermic needle, which he held up for Bill to look at.

“Relax,” Simon said. “It’s only sodium pentothal. More than enough to loosen your lips but not enough to cause any serious damage. At least not usually.”

Simon then leaned forward. Bill tried to struggle, but the two thugs held him steady.

“If there was a chance that you would cooperate and remove your jacket I wouldn’t need to inject this inside your gum,” Simon cooed softly. “But one must do what one must do. Now, please open your mouth or I’ll have my associates force it open.”

Then it was as if a bomb had been detonated.

Chapter 17

That was all Bill could think of at first. That a bomb went off underneath the van. A deafening explosion was followed by the van violently being lifted off the ground, along with the simultaneous sound of glass breaking and metal twisting.

For a few unbearably long seconds it felt as if the van was going to end up on its side, or possibly on its roof, but then it fell back on all four wheels. The clean-shaven thug on Bill’s right was out cold, the goateed thug appeared woozy as he held his head in both hands and moaned softly. Simon had been thrown off balance and was on his knees on the van floor. He looked as woozy as the goateed thug, and he nearly fell over again as he tried to push himself back up. Bill moved quickly, wrestling the hypodermic needle away from him and jabbing it into the goateed thug’s neck, pushing hard with his thumb to make sure every drop of serum was injected into the thug’s bloodstream. The thug screamed then. Bill wasted no time scrambling over the unconscious body of the other thug and slid the van door open, then fell out of it.

Only after he was back on his feet and staggering away from the van did Bill realize what had happened. A Hummer SUV had run a stop sign and broadsided the van. From the massive damage to both vehicles, the SUV had to have been going at a good fifty to sixty miles per hour on impact. The front of the SUV was demolished, the middle of the van caved in. Ironically, the two thugs in the van had protected Bill, acting almost as human air bags. Bill moved slowly backwards, observing the damage, then watched as the driver’s side door to the van opened and a man crawled out. The man’s face was a bloody mess. A paneled partition had separated the back of the van from the driver’s compartment,  so Bill hadn’t been able to see the driver earlier, and with the condition that the man’s face was left in Bill still couldn’t get a good enough look at him to be able to identify him later. That didn’t matter. He watched almost mesmerized as the man crawled on all fours, then pushed himself to his feet. The spell was broken when the man pulled a gun with an attached silencer from out of his jacket. Bill took a couple of unsteady steps backwards before turning and running, making the same sort of quick zigzagging movements he was trained to do during his time in the army. He wasn’t sure whether it was his imagination or not, but he thought he felt something whiz by his ear as he turned a corner, the sound almost like a fly buzzing. After that he ran harder. He ignored a burning in his chest and a growing lightheadedness as he raced down three blocks before darting into a small grocery store.

For several minutes he stood frozen inside the store, his hands on his hips while he sucked in air, all the while watching the street for any of the men who had tried abducting him. When he was satisfied that they weren’t coming after him he reached for his cell phone, then remembered he had left it in his car, as well as his laptop. Swearing softly to himself, he turned and saw that people in the store were watching him with a mix of curiosity and fear, probably thinking he was either crazy or dangerous or both. He approached the cashier and asked her if he could use the phone. “I need to call the police,” he said.

Chapter 18

After years of scrimping, Emily and her mom saved enough for her graduate studies so that with along with what she earned from the university by teaching an undergraduate course each semester, she was able to cover half of her costs for her college tuition and living expenses. The other half she made up for with freelance jobs, which were mostly graphic design assignment for web-sites. The university was good about letting her use her office and university resources for these jobs, and at that moment she was finishing painting a watercolor for a book cover that she had been contracted for. While she worked on her painting, Vivaldi’s
Concerto in E Major for Violin
played on a portable compact disc player that Emily had bought for nine dollars at a secondhand store. Emily liked classical music, particularly Vivaldi and the playfulness and exuberance of his concertos. Listening to Vivaldi and other classical artists allowed her to relax and empty her mind and tap more fully into her subconscious.

Once the painting was finished, Emily would take a photograph of it and send it to the book publisher who had contracted the artwork to her. While it paid less than many of her graphic design assignments, she particularly enjoyed doing these book covers and the creativity involved with them. The painting she was now doing was for a lurid crime novel written by a local Boston area writer. Usually she didn’t like books as dark and violent as this novel was, but she found this one riveting, especially in its underlying themes of coldness and alienation in modern society. It was only as she was finishing up the painting that she noticed the excessively deep pink hue that she had used in coloring the villain’s face, and she realized then that she had painted the villain as the same scary-looking man that she saw a few days earlier who she thought might’ve been following Bill. It shocked her to realize that she had done this.

A chill ran through Emily as she stared at her recreation of this very pink-faced man with his dead reptilian dot-sized eyes. She was struck with an impulse to show her painting to Bill so she could let him know that this man might’ve been following him, but the more she thought of doing this the more foolish she felt. The last thing she wanted was for Bill to think of her as a neurotic nut. A sudden resolve gripped her and she ripped her painting in half. She would start over, and this time she would play Chopin’s
Nocturne
, hoping that the moodiness of his music might provide better inspiration.

And she would make sure she didn’t paint any more very pink-faced men.