Gecko (25 page)

The dark clouds were gone and the moonlight dancing off the tombstones made them appear ghostly and forbidding. She was laying across a grave, facing a silvery slab. John Thomas Tanaka, Taken by accident on his fifteenth birthday, August 1, 1959, Walking in a Better Place, she read, and her heart went out to him. Fifteen. He hadn’t even started to live. Were you a good boy, John Tanaka? Did your parents call you Johnny? She noticed the fresh flowers and wondered about such devotion after all this time.

She touched her forehead and winced. She was already getting a welt. How long had she been asleep. Not asleep, the thought assaulted her, she had passed out. She turned away from John Tanaka’s tombstone, toward the gap in the fence, expecting to see those glowing yellow eyes, but the slimy lizard thing was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief.

She felt the cool wetness between her legs and she shivered again. She wanted to get up and pee. She wanted a dry pair of pants, but they were in one of the laundry bags on the other side of the fence, behind the garage. No way was she going back through that gap. I’m going to stay right here with you, Johnny Tanaka. Safe in your arms. I’m not moving till Jim Monday comes through that fence. And like when she was a little girl, she wished her dad would come.

* * *

He crushed his opponent, a North Vietnamese colonel, with his three hotels on Park Place. The imaginary game was one of the long ones, about three hours, he figured, and still he heard the television set in the other room. Would they never go to sleep?

He was cramped in a tight sitting position, in a dark closet, in the den. The sound of the television filtered through as a steady drone, reminding him of the constant barrage his North Vietnamese captors blared through their loud speakers.

He wasn’t able to escape from that prison, he hadn’t even tried. That was the hardest thing for him to live with, the not trying. He was able to stand up to them. Able to resist their torture. Strong enough not to sign anything. But not brave enough to try and get out. No man was as courageous as they had painted him. He had been afraid. He hadn’t tried to escape, because he was more afraid of what was outside the wire than inside.

Outside was the terrifying war. He started fighting his fear before he even got to Vietnam. Everyday something more to be afraid of. Everyday. Everyday he fought fear and did his job. He was an excellent soldier. Distinguished in battle. Decorated by his superiors. Demanding of himself. First to fight. Last to retreat. Always afraid.

When he was captured and he knew the war was over for him, the fear fled. He was flooded with an immense feeling of relief. His captors never understood that. They expected another whimpering dog. Monday didn’t cry out when tortured, but he didn’t resist either. After awhile, they left him alone. Maybe he could have escaped, but he didn’t try. And here he was all over again, cringing in a kind of prison cell, not trying to escape.

No, he told himself, not again. He was not going to sit and wait. He was going to escape and wipe away the memories of all those nights when he was forced to turn inward. He went deep into his mind and found a can of gas and a book of matches. He poured the gasoline on the Monopoly board, struck a match and imagined the flames. He’d played his last Monopoly game. Glenna was counting on him. He had cowered in the closet long enough.

He stood in the dark and opened the door. The sky had cleared and the moonlight filtering in the window reflected off the glass enclosed photograph on top of the desk. He went to the desk, opened the top drawer and withdrew the forty-five, sticking it between the small of his back and his Levi’s.

He hoped the television would cover whatever noise he made. He breathed a sigh of relief when the door to the hallway opened without a sound. To get to the kitchen and the key rack, where he hoped he would now find a set of car keys, he would have to go through the dining room at the end of the hallway. The dining room was open to the living room, where somebody was watching a late movie.

He reached down and slipped his new shoes off. Clad now in stocking feet, shoes in hand, he tiptoed down the hallway. The bedroom door was open. There was someone sleeping inside. He tiptoed past.

The sound of the television was like a freight train moving through his head. The volume had increased and the chords ripping off of Bruce Springsteen’s guitar pierced him like daggers. The TV watcher was channel surfing, now settling on MTV.

He peeked around the corner at the end of the hallway and saw the back of a head rising out of the armchair, facing away from him, staring at the big screen. Bruce was dancing on stage, guitar in hand. He took the plunge and started a quiet walk across the dining room, hoping any sound he might make would be covered by the E Street Band. He saw an arm rise out of the chair, remote in hand. A finger hit a button and Bruce vanished, replaced by a black and white Charlie Chan movie. The head started to turn. Jim took a quick step and slid into the kitchen. He stubbed his toe on a kitchen chair and the sound seemed to echo through the kitchen like a cannon shot.

“
That you, Honey?” a male voice said from the living room. He stood, silent. He saw a set of keys in the rack. He took them and stuffed them in the front pocket of his Levi’s. “Honey, get me a glass of water,” the male voice said.

“
All right,” a female answered, as the channel changed again. Bruce and the Band were back. The woman was coming toward the kitchen, he felt it. Five quick steps and he was in the laundry room. Two more steps, at the back door. He opened the door with sweaty hands and was out in the night, closing the door when the kitchen light went on. She would have her snack and get her husband a glass of water and never know he had been there.

Thank you Bruce, I’ll buy one of your CDs someday, he promised as he hurried across the yard and alongside the garage. He found the laundry bags behind it, but not Glenna.

He sat and waited for his heart to slow down. He rubbed the dirt off his socks and put on the shoes. Where was she? She promised she would wait. He couldn’t believe she took off. She’d promised. He remembered the kiss. She’d promised. He felt the dark closing in and he smelled something stale. He didn’t like it back there, maybe Glenna didn’t either. He got up and made his way to the gap in the fence and poked his head through.

“
I knew you would come,” she said, rising into a sitting position. “I knew it.” She was a battered angel leaning on a tombstone, basking in the moonlight. He pulled himself through and dashed across the plank to her side.

“
The lizard thing was back there,” she said, quivering and wide-eyed, “but it was afraid to come into the cemetery.” She was saying more, but he was unable to hear. A searing pain shot through the base of his skull. He felt like his head was being ripped apart. He collapsed at her side, falling across John Tanaka’s grave.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he had been out, but when he came to he was in a hospital bed. He looked up at the white ceiling through hazy eyes. His head turned and he saw the clear bag hanging on the silver stand. He was being fed intravenously. He wondered what was in the IV.

His head turned again, he was alone in the room. His eyes moved back toward the IV and cold fear washed through him. He was laying in a hospital bed. Helpless. Motionless. Watching. His head was turning, his eyes were moving, but he wasn’t doing it. Something or someone had control of his body.

He tried to talk.

“
Where am I.” He felt the words but they made no sound.

“
Is that you, Jim Monday?” It was a female voice, soft, with an accent, not British, almost Australian. “Did you come to help me?”

“
Who is that? Where are you?” He had seen enough when his eyes involuntarily swept the room to know that he was alone.

“
It’s me, Donna.” Her words had weight, they hung in the air—not in his head. They had sound. “But this is how you’re used to talking to me, isn’t it?” She thought.

“
You’re back.”

“
No, I’m not. Not the way you think.”

His head moved again and he stared down the length of his body. He was in a hospital bed, wearing a white gown, restrained. Strapped in, like a common criminal. Feet and arms strapped to the sides of the bed. He was immobilized. His eyes moved and locked on his breasts, jutting toward the ceiling, nipples visible through the gown’s thin cotton.

“
Get the picture?” He heard her voice again. Soft. Silky. Smooth. She lapsed back into thought, “You’re in my head now.”

“
How?”

“
I don’t know, but we are in heaps of trouble.”

“
Why are you in the hospital? And why restrained?”

“
I don’t know. I’ve only been conscious for a few hours. A man came in earlier and I tried to talk to him, but he ignored me. I don’t think this is a real hospital.”

“
Why not?”

“
No nurses, no noise, no TV, no patients, no windows—things like that.”

“
How are you doing?” a voice coming from the doorway asked.

“
Where am I?” Donna asked, “And who are you?”

“
You’re in my clinic, and I’m—” He let the sentence trail off. “You don’t really need to know my name.”

“
What am I doing here?”

“
Getting better I hope. You gave me quite a fright when you went into the coma. I thought I was going to lose you, but you hung in there and pulled through. That was good for me, because virgins are getting harder and harder to find.”

“
What?”

“
I checked. If they’re not virgins I use them for a few days, then kill them. Virgins I have to save. And you’re not just any virgin, you’re special.” He started to unbutton his shirt.

“
What are you doing?” she asked, voice squeaking.

“
I have to keep you intact, orders, but I am allowed to play. I just can’t break anything, so to speak.”

The shirt was hanging open, showing a hairy chest and a fat belly. He rubbed the beer pot with his right hand, pulled a rolled cigarette out of his pocket with his left. He lit it and the pungent smell of marijuana filled the room. He took a deep drag and held his breath. After exhaling with a long sigh he held the joint to her lips.

Donna clamped her mouth shut.

He reached into his pocket and brought out a switchblade. He flicked it open.

“
Very sharp.” He leered at her. “Either you suck smoke like a good little girl, or I’ll slit your throat and find a new virgin. You decide.”

“
Easy decision,” she thought, “I smoke the joint.”

“
He’ll probably kill you anyway. Don’t do it if you don’t want.”

“
I don’t want, but I’m too young to shoot through.” She opened her mouth and took a long drag on the joint. She was no stranger to marijuana. Almost everybody she knew had tried it.

“
That’s better.” He took another long drag. Before the joint was half finished, she was more stoned than she had ever been with her friends at the mall. Despite her terror, she closed her eyes, and for a brief few seconds she imagined she was sitting on the concrete benches of the small outdoor mall in downtown Whangarei on a hot December night, passing a joint back and forth, laughing and giggling with the girls, teasing the boys. When she opened her eyes he was taking off his shirt.

“
What are you going to do?” Her head was swimming. Waves of pleasure and terror ran the course of her body. Pinpricks of joy and pain. She was riding a black stallion called fear. Dread filled her every pore. She felt both wonderful and terrified.

“
Nothing you won’t like. I’m just going to play a little.” He held the joint between his lips while he bent over and took off his shoes and socks. He took a drag, then put it back to her lips. She inhaled, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs. She held her breath as he took off his pants. Maybe, she thought, if she held her breath long enough, she would pass out and he would go away. He pulled his boxer shorts off and stood before her, hairy and naked.

She continued to hold her breath. He sensed what she was trying to do and poked her in the stomach, forcing her to exhale.

“
Naughty, naughty, trying to miss all the fun.”

She gasped, her lungs screaming for air. He shoved the joint to her lips and she drew in more of the acrid smoke, and it threw her into a coughing spasm. He stepped back and watched till she settled down and was able to breath.

“
The way I look at it,” he said, “we can do this one of two ways.” He walked naked to a rolling metal chest of drawers and withdrew two objects. “In my left hand I’m holding a standard battery operated vibrator. It can be the source of much pleasure. In the right I’m holding a standard Los Angeles police issue taser, capable of sending several thousand volts of electricity through your nervous system. It can be the source of much pain. Which is it to be?”

She didn’t answer.

He pushed a button on the taser and she saw a bolt of blue electricity jump between the two terminals.

“
It’s very painful,” he said.

“
The vibrator,” she whispered.

“
Good. Very good.” His hands went between his legs and he started to play with himself, making himself hard. He rolled the chest of drawers to the bed and withdrew a jar of oil. She wanted to struggle, but she was bound to the bed. She screamed and continued screaming as he used the switchblade to slice away the hospital gown, leaving her bound and naked. He poured some of the oil on her breasts and started to massage them. She stopped screaming.