The Messenger (2011 reformat) (22 page)

She wasn't
sure.

One hand was
on her side now, and it began to inch upward. Here was her opportunity to say
no.

A rap sounded
on the door. Jane and Steve flinched, tried to haphazardly right themselves.
"Yes?" Jane said in a rush.

Jennifer stuck
her head in, smiling. "I just wanted to let you know that we're going to
bed now. Good night, Mom. Good night, Chief Steve."

Jane hoped her
face wasn't flushed. "Good night, honey."

"Good
night, Jen," Steve said.

Jennifer's
smile retreated back out, and the door closed with a click.

"Talk
about bad timing," Jane said.

Steve laughed.
"At least my beeper or cell phone hasn't gone off."

He took her
hand again, leaned close. "Look, I'm sorry. I know I'm making this too
fast for you. I didn't mean to do that."

That's when
Jane knew.

"It's not
too fast for me. Let's go to my bedroom."

II

Yeah, smooth
as fuckin’ silk, Martin thought sourly. He took two good hits off the flask in
the bathroom, popped a mint strip, and nodded. He was deceiving himself,
telling himself that he felt better now than he had yesterday. The booze never
really helped anything, though. Sometimes it would make him forget, but later
the memories would return and they'd be worse.

His hatred
raged.

Martin was
disappointed in himself, and he knew that someone else was, too. He wasn't sure
who that other person was yet, but he would soon enough.

God, I was all
ready. I was ready to do it, and I know it's what I'm supposed to do. But-

Last night
Martin had simply chickened out.

That other
thing-or other person-that was coming in and out of his heart for the past day
began to rage along with Martin's own hatred.

What's wrong
with my head?

Yes. Last
night. He'd been right there. After work, he'd had a couple of shots at Jill's
Thrills, his favorite strip joint. The way Martin saw it, the lower in class
the better, 'cuz that's what it was really all about. Lot of the chicks in
there tricked. Fifty bucks and they'd come in the car with you for a fast one.
A hundred and they'd give you an hour in a motel room. Martin had done it
before-plenty of times-but he knew something was changing in him now.

Some other
thing, or some other person, was directing him, showing him his real purpose.
More and more he felt as though he were becoming stronger through this other
voice that had found its way into his soul. He felt comforted. He felt as
though he had a true meaning for the first time in his life.

He understood
now that there were messages to be delivered, and he was to help deliver them.

The girl from
the bar was one of his favorites, an urchin-like little stick of a thing named
Cindy. She was pale and lean, with inordinately pink nipples. Tattoos looked
like branding marks on her white skin, and her eyes were huge and empty. Martin
liked the look-it turned him on-that hollow soul-dead cast of resigned
desperation. Crack or crystal meth, Martin wasn't sure what her jones was, but
she was always happy to come out to the car with him for a few minutes after
her dance set. She was fast and effective, her talent-he was sure-honed by
sheer experience. When they'd finished, Martin was all ready, all ready to send
the message. Under the seat he'd stashed his old K-Bar knife from the Marine Corps,
and when she was putting her top back on, her face momentarily covered, he knew
that was the perfect time. They'd taught him how to do it in the Corps: just
ram the knife's tip right into the little hollow below the Adam's apple. It
severed the larynx so they couldn't scream.

Now. Now! the
other voice was telling him.

But Martin
lost his nerve. Cinny pulled her top back on, smiled wanly and said
"Thanks. See ya next time," and she was out of the car and scurrying
back into the bar.

He'd been
thinking too much. They know me here, they saw me leave with her, they see me
leave with dancers all the time. When she didn't come back, they'd know it was
me.

Don't you
understand?
,
the other voice asked him.

"No!"
Martin sobbed.

It doesn't
matter. The message is all that matters.

Martin drove
off, greedy for the opportunity to redeem himself to his new guide. But, no,
more failure. First, the girl at the massage parlor, a pretty Korean woman. He
got so far as to actually grip the knife hidden in the bag he'd brought, but
then he remembered that several other guys had been sitting in the waiting room
beside the door with the bell on it. They'd be able to give the police a
description maybe...

It doesn't
matter, the voice inside scolded him.

One more try,
this time with the hooker he'd picked up on the main drag. No one had seen him,
and no one could've possibly seen her get in the car. Martin was gunned up by
now. He knew he could do it. Cut her vocal cords and then peel her like a
banana. She was even wobbly in the car seat, eyelids drooping, half whacked out
on dope. Too easy.

But Martin
simply lost his nerve.

He could sense
his guide's disappointment. One more chance, one more chance, he begged,
hitting on his flask as he drove. Please, give me one more chance and I'll
prove to you that I'm worthy. Tell me where to go and I'll do it. Guide me.

Next thing
Martin knew, he was parked at a corner behind some hedges. Nice suburban
neighborhood. Quiet. Still. A little after midnight and not a sound could be
heard. He was getting out, stalking through backyards, before he even realized
exactly where the Messenger had taken him.

A back
bedroom. A window.

Dark inside
but he could see enough.

A man and
woman lay naked together, cuddling. Moonlight painted the edges of their bodies
like some surreal erotic art. They were having a little quiet time in between
rounds, he guessed. The window was open; he couldn't hear exactly what they
were saying but they were talking, whispering, pillow talk in the afterglow.
Martin's eyes felt pasted to the woman's body like an image in seedy
pornography. Her skin and contours looked gritty in the tinseled darkness. He
could see the details of her nipples, her navel, and her pubis too, when the pillow
talk faltered and she dragged the sheets off her lower body. The dude was all
over her again in a heartbeat, licking lines with his tongue from her nipples, down
her flat stomach, to her.

Martin spent
the next half hour, watching in utter silence, engrossed and aroused. He
relieved what he could of his own sexual angst right there on the side of the
house, almost blowing it, almost gasping aloud, in which case he surely
would've been heard and then he would've screwed up again, wouldn't he? He
would've disappointed the Messenger yet again. If he charged in there right
now, though-easy because the window was open-he might be able to take them both
out. The guy looked pretty fit, and Martin himself wasn't fit at all, but he'd
have the darkness and the element of surprise on his side, wouldn't he? Go in
there and just go caveman on them. Go for the guy first, get some lower-body
stabs with the knife before he knew what hit him, and then start to work on the
woman. But...

No. It's
better this way, my son, he was told. Just...wait.

Martin waited
as instructed. It was as though his guide had known what would happen next.
Inside, the dude and woman had gone at it like banshees, a real down-and-dirty
show. Then they were lying on the bed, talking. They talked for a long time.
And then...

Perfect.
Here's my best chance of the night, Martin thought.

The guy was
leaving. Put on his duds, gave her a long last kiss, and was out of there. In a
moment, Martin could hear a car start around front and drive away.

And now the
woman was in there all alone. She was sitting naked on the edge of the bed.
What a brick shit house, Martin thought. She was lying down again,
spread-eagled on top of the sheets. Martin drunk up the sight of that body and
thought that she'd look even better after he cut her up. The Messenger would
like that, the Messenger expected it. For a minute, Martin thought she was
going to masturbate, the way she was lying there on the sheets with her legs
wide open. It looked like she'd actually brought her hands close to her groin
... but then she rolled over. Yeah, perfect. She's going back to sleep. That
was great and there was something he'd just noticed-when he could see her face
for the first time-that made it all even more perfect.

I just can't
believe it. Nobody gets this lucky. Maybe it was the Messenger himself who'd
effected this situation; he'd brought Martin here, hadn't he? He must know.
Martin got out the K-Bar. Oh, what he would do to her with it. Now his hatred
was all sparked up by the most irresistible lust. Because in those last few
minutes when she'd been lying there on her back, Martin had finally been able
to see the woman's face oh so clearly.

It was Jane
Ryan.

Martin
prepared to go in.

"Hey,
peeping tom!" a voice rang out like a gunshot from behind.

Martin nearly
had a coronary.

"I'm
calling the cops, you pervert!"

Martin
couldn't move. He'd been seen! Impulse flooded him: the impulse to run away as
fast as he could, but...

Be still.

Martin stood
and stared.

My son, your
redemption is upon you. Take it.

Martin knew
what the Messenger meant, because he'd actually said it before, hadn't he? In
Martin's head?

The guide had
told him, It doesn't matter. The message is all that matters.

Martin, as
drunk and as unsophisticated as he might have been, understood the implication.
The act was all that mattered. It didn't matter that he'd be caught. It didn't
matter that he'd be tried and sentenced to death. Death was eternal, and Martin
welcomed that new eternity in the domain of the Messenger.

Go in there
now, my son. And deliver my message.

Martin
trembled. He tried and tried and tried, but he couldn't force himself to go in
that window. Inside, the light had switched on; the bitch, no doubt, had heard
the neighbor yelling. She'd pulled on a robe, was putting down the phone, and
now she was coming to the window, and if Martin stayed even for another few
seconds, Jane Ryan would see him.

Martin ran
away.

The Messenger
had stopped talking to him after that. The memory of last night's unmitigated
failure reminded him of his entire life. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It
you spend your whole life never taking a risk, you never really have a life
because you never get anything, and Martin knew this: without the Messenger, he
had nothing. For the last day he'd felt absolutely alive. Martin needed that
feeling back.

Please come
back into my heart, he pleaded.

He had the
knife in a sheath in his belt. He was wearing his shirttail out so no one could
see it. Martin was going to prove himself to the Messenger. Today. Right here
in the post office.

He'd wait
until lunch. The carriers, who were mostly men, would all be on the road, and
half the clerks and handlers would be gone. He'd go office to office, carving
up as many as he could, and then he'd gut himself and let the Messenger send
him on to a better place where he would finally be rewarded for something.

And he knew
which office he'd be starting at-Jane Ryan's.

"Martin-there
you are." The stern tone assailed him the second he stepped out of the
bathroom. It was Jane Ryan, in her tight top and postal shorts, frowning at him
in the hall. "Are you finished with the two-foot trays and the
Jacksonville drop?"

"Yes,"
Martin said.

"Good.
I'll give you one more chance. You can still have the promotion to DPS foreman
if you want it."

Martin stood
still. The hall was empty; he could do it now, couldn't he? One hard thwack
with the K-Bar and he could have her head half off. He'd cut her clothes off
right there on the floor while she gargled blood. His rage seethed. I don't
need one more chance from you, you big-tit bitch. I need it from someone else,
and I'm gonna get it. Look for me around lunchtime.

"No, Ms.
Ryan, I don't."

"Okay."
She turned around, pointed to the foot of her office door where two small boxes
sat. "See those two boxes? It's a maintenance delivery, spare parts for
the new collators, pinion replacement rods or something."

"What
about them?" Martin asked.

"Take
them down to the basement, will you?" Then she turned and walked off to
the front service cove.

Martin smiled.
Sure, Ms. Ryan. I'll take 'em down. And then at lunch, I'll take YOU down.

"Oh, and
Martin?" She'd stopped at the door. "Put your shirttail in. It's
against post-office policy. They call it a uniform for a reason. So that all
staff look uniform." Then she was through the door and gone.