Dark Luck (A Suspense Thriller) (14 page)

He felt alright, his legs and arms were intact, save
for a few bruises here and there, and he still had all of his fingers. There
were no major problems with his body. However, he might be jumping to
conclusions; he’d been in a bad car crash after all.

Frank closed his eyes. He had no desire to think about
the car crash. Car crashes were associated with mutilation, broken bones,
dismemberment, blood, and death. He didn’t need all this negativity; he craved
happy thoughts. He’d forgotten a lot of things, but sooner or later all those
memories would come back, wouldn’t they? He would recall his whole family in
due course, but now he needed a little rest. He didn't remember what his
bedroom looked like or what kind of chandelier hung in the living room, and it
was okay. At least he remembered having a house. Yes, he definitely owned a
house in a Buffalo suburb.

His name was Frank Fowler. He’d been in a car crash. He
had a son. Or a daughter. And he was married... A daughter. Yes, he had a
daughter. He was fairly confident he had a daughter, not a son.

“How long is it going to last?” Josephine asked the
doctor. “Can you treat it?”

A Buffalo suburb? Why was he so sure about it?

Wife. Daughter. Why hadn’t they visited him yet? So
rude of them.

He commanded his brain to go into a stand-by mode so as
not to be distracted by Josephine and Raynolds' conversation and his own
thoughts that kept trickling into his mind. Frank fixed his vacant gaze on the
white ceiling right above him. At the bottom of his frame of vision he could
see the fluorescent lamp radiating soft light. A lulling wave of carefreeness
suddenly overwhelmed Frank, who had gotten tired of feeling weary. The time had
come to take a break from suffering and somber thoughts. Thank God, there was
no physical pain in the mix; one fewer thing to worry about, you know.

Frank Fowler... That was his name. Frank Fowler... Yes,
yes, without a doubt, his name was Frank Fowler.

Fowler... Frank Fowler.

Mother. Do you have a mother, Frank Fowler? You must
have a mother and a father; otherwise you wouldn’t have been born. What are
their names?

Names? Yes, they surely had names.

They have names, buddy, which are stored somewhere in
your head.

The house had been ruined. Nothing could have escaped
destruction in this fire, nothing. The flames were exceptionally hot, and even
metal pipes got twisted in whimsical ways by the blaze. Something might have
been preserved in the basement or in a fireproof safe. There could be jewels,
important documents, or something else of value in that safe. Cash.

His mother's name was... Mo... Mo... Something
beginning with Mo.

Father? Will? Walt! His father’s name was Walt!

Monica? Was his Mom’s name Monica? No, he was wrong.
Her name did not begin with Mo. But he was sure his Dad’s name was Walt.

There, in the dusty smoke-filled basement, something
had been saved from the fire. Old furniture—chairs, tables, sofas... Walt
Fowler and... Arlene. His mother's name was Arlene.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep before he knew it.

5.

He woke up a few days later. No, it must have been only
a few minutes because the woman was still talking to the doctor and had the same
clothes on. Josephine and Doctor Raynolds were still talking; he could hear
their voices.

And then his name emerged to the surface of his
consciousness—just  like a corpse of a drowned man floats up from the bottom of
the lake—Frank Fowler. His name was Frank Fowler. The doctor had been correct
calling him Mister Fowler.

How about his wife? And his daughter?

“Frank, Doctor Raynolds told me there’s nothing to
worry about.” Josephine craned over him, her face tense with concern. “I’m so
glad you’re going to be fine. We can’t wait to have you back, Frank.”

Excited... She looked excited now. And cheerful. She
seemed to sincerely love him. Sister-in-law. Kelly's sister.

Kelly... Kelly... Kel-l-l-ly. Hi, Kelly! How are you?

His daughter... Where was his daughter?

“I remember,” said Frank. “My name is Frank Fowler.”

“What?” There was a visible shift in Josephine's facial
expression. “What did you say, Frank?”

His hand was in its place. Thank God, his right hand
was still in its natural place. Here it was, his remarkable right hand. How
about fingers?

He darted an anxious look at his hand. His fingers were
still there, all five of them. One, two, three, four, five. Yes, all five of
them.

Do it, please! Do everything in your power, dear
doctors! Fix this body. Don’t let this man perish.  

Car crash. It’s such a horrible thing. Something must
be wrong with his body.

“My daughter,” he said, trying to speak as loud as
possible. “Where's my daughter?”

“You remembered your daughter?” the woman said with
enthusiasm. “Did you remember me? Please, try a little harder. I know it's
difficult for you to focus right now, but, please, try to remember me.
Josephine. Josephine Buckhaus. Kelly's sister.” She smiled and gently rubbed
his hand. “Kelly's sister, Frank. You’ve got to remember me.” She turned to
Raynolds, expecting him to put his two cents in.

“What’s my daughter's name?” asked Frank. “Tell me my
daughter's name.”

Josephine shifted her eyes from the doctor to Frank,
and a smile appeared on her face again.

“Kathy, Frank.” She squeezed his wrist. “Her name is
Kathy. Do you remember her?”

Frank nodded, and a second later—or maybe a minute?—he
realized that he had done it without effort. That was great news: he was able
to easily move his head, which meant his neck was fine.

He had done a good job drawing conclusions on the basis
of trivial details, by the way.

“Yes, I remember I have a daughter. I seem to remember
that. And her name is Kathy.” He fell into trance again.

Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy Kathy Kathy... Nothing.
The name did not ring a bell at all. It just bounced through the chambers of
his memory, producing the same results as the name of this woman, Josephine
Buckhaus. Kathy Fowler. Kathy Fowler, his daughter. Kelly Fowler, his wife.
Josephine Buckhaus.

“Josephine?” he muttered, staring at the woman. “I
don’t remember you, Josephine.”

“Don't you really remember me, Frank?” the woman
exchanged glances with Raynolds for the hundredth time. “I guess it’s not the
end of the world. After all, he remembers Kelly.”

“No,” Frank said and began waiting for the others'
reaction. It was amazing: they paid attention to every word of his.

“You don't remember Kelly,” muttered Josephine. “You
don't remember your wife?”

He shook his head. It immediately registered in his mind
that he could move his head easily, without any pain. Or was it the painkillers
doing their magic?

He-he, buddy. It was a bad car crash, you're not going
to get off scot free!

“Maybe I'll remember her later,” he said. “You’re
saying Kelly is my wife?”

His neck. What had happened to it?

“Yes, Frank. Kelly is your wife. How could you forget
her?”

He turned his head to the left until his nose touched
the pillow, and a jolt of pain struck the bases of his neck. The pain subsided
when he turned his head to the right in order to digest the latest bit
information from Josephine. His neck was obviously not alright.

“What happened to my head?” he asked. “When am I
getting out of here?”

“I think we’ll be able to release you in less than a
week,” said Raynolds. “Apart from the memory loss, you are in a great shape,
Frank.”

“I—” Frank paused. “Am I paralyzed?”

Raynolds smiled and said, “Please don’t scare yourself,
Frank. I assure you that you are not paralyzed.”

“You are going to be fine, Frank. Try to relax,” Josephine
said. “Doctor Raynolds will take a good care of you.”

“You’ll be back home just before you know it, Mister
Fowler.”

Chapter 4.

JANE

1.

Female life expectancy in America is eighty
one years; hence, when a woman is sixty one, she has on average twenty years
ahead of her. To Jane Frey, twenty years was a heck of lot of time, and she
liked thinking about it occasionally, especially while watching a travel show
about some exotic country on the Discovery Channel. This cold November
evening—seventeen and a half months before Frank crashed into a freeway
wall—Jane was leisurely making a list of things she could do in the next ten
years. She was sitting in an armchair with knitting needles in her hands,
intermittently glancing at the window, behind which the backyard had been
growing darker and darker. She noted with a tinge of melancholy that another
day had passed. In about three hours it would be midnight, which would mark the
beginning of a new day without George.

She had twenty years at her disposal.
Twenty years of living without George. It was quite a long period of time, no
doubt about it. Hopefully, she would be dementia free at least until she hit
seventy five.  

She was knitting a scarf for Kelly's
daughter Kathy. It sounded so trite—knitting at sixty—that she almost laughed
at herself. She wished she was able to laugh more often now, a month after
George had died. Time heals all wounds, they say, right? She had been with
George for thirty six years, so it must take her wounds quite a while to heal.
After spending more than half of your half with someone, you get used to always
having this person by your side, and when that person dies, you are perplexed
about how it could have happened at all. He has always been there, for thirty
six years, then all of a sudden he is gone and all that’s left is ashes in a
brass urn.

George Frey had passed away and would never
be back. Never.

In the past month, she had begun getting
used to George’s absence. She had forced herself to do it because she couldn’t
allow this depression to go on forever. George was dead and nothing could
change this fact; that was the harsh reality, that was the new normal.

“You have so much to do, Jane. People only
start living after sixty,” her friends told her.

And she wanted to believe them because it
gave her strength to go on and keep her sanity. The day after George's death
she had realized she had had to pull herself together, but she was not sure
twenty years would be enough for the pain to go away.

She hadn’t seen George’s face after he had
died. Kelly hadn’t allowed her to look at his body, knowing that this sight—the
sight of a man that had burned to death in his truck after crashing into the
ditch—could have killed her then and there. They had been right. Jane’s heart would
have exploded had she seen his mutilated corpse. Her lovely daughter had
prevented her from being haunted by a dead George’s charred face in her dreams
for the rest of her life. Jane was impressionable enough to let the monstrous
face imprint itself into her memory as the master image of her husband that
would have come up first every time she thought about him.     

Yes, Kelly had been very wise not to allow
her to see George dead.

Jane had twenty years ahead. She had
already endured one month without George, and there were hundreds of months
more to live through. Was she up to this challenge? Did life only begin at
sixty? Or was it merely a white lie intended to make old folks feel better
about themselves? How many people had the fortitude and imagination to start
anew at sixty? Or was she weaker than most older women?

Well, she had already started something—the
scarf. She ought to finish it and then begin to look for another fun activity. 

Jane readjusted her glasses and resumed
knitting. By her estimates, the scarf would be finished in two days. She hoped
Kathy would love it.

2.

He was sitting in a Ford Focus, which he
had rented last night, gazing at his watch with an air of deep thought. It was
7:08 pm. The car engine was off. In November, daylight was short and kept
shrinking all the way to the winter solstice in late December. This time of day
in November, you had to strain your eyes to discern the license plate number on
a car just thirty feet away.

He had decided to go to the old woman's place
when it was dark enough so that a casual witness would not be able to describe
in detail the person who had visited Jane Frey around eight o’clock in the
evening. He hoped the prospective witnesses would even be unsure if it had been
a man or a woman. To add more confusion, he had put on a false moustache. By
the way, he loved his moustached look: the resemblance to a younger Tom Selleck
was striking.  

He was waiting for 7:30 pm. He chose this
particular point in time because 7:30 was a round number, and he had a certain
fondness for round numbers. It was a newly acquired compulsion—a quirk if you
will—and he liked it. Of course, 8:00 pm would have been even better, but he
didn’t feel like waiting
that
long. 

He heaved a weary sigh, moved his tongue, pushing
the stuck food particles from between his teeth. He spat out a tiny piece of
beef—a remnant of the cheeseburger he’d devoured two hours before. 

It was 7:11 pm.

3.

Jane glanced at the wall clock. A quarter
past seven. The clock was either a few minutes fast or a few minutes slow, she
had forgotten which it was. One thing she knew for sure: you couldn’t trust its
accuracy. She thought, with a hopeless sadness: the closer you got to seventy,
the less the exact time mattered.  

Was it bad? Was it bad that she didn’t have
to hurry anywhere? Was it pathetic not to care what time it was?

When had she entered this carefree zone?

It was not pathetic or sad; it was
marvelous, and young people would be happy to have such a luxury.

Jane rose and headed to the kitchen. She
felt thirsty and was going to pour herself a glass of orange juice. 

How about getting married again? Men in
their sixties do it all the time. It was just a wild thought a friend of hers
had thrown out a few days ago. This idea seemed unacceptable to her at the
moment, but who could predict how she would feel about it two, three, or five
years from now? Never say never, right?  

In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator
and quickly found the bottle with juice. 

How old was Elizabeth Taylor when she
married her last husband? Around sixty, wasn’t she? And what about those
eighty-year-old women marrying ninety-year-old men Jane read about in
newspapers almost on a monthly basis? It wasn’t an exotic thing anymore, you
know, for an older woman to tie the knot again.

4.

His watch showed 7:25 pm. He braced himself
and ordered his brain to focus on the old woman. He had already prepared a neat
list of things he would do to her. Five minutes. He was planning to get out of
the car in exactly five minutes. It would take him two minutes to walk to
Jane’s house. He had the key to her front door, so he didn’t have to waste time
picking the lock. If there were no surprises, he should be inside the house by
7:33 pm. Only God knew how long he would stay there, alone with Jane. It could
be fifteen minutes, it could be half an hour; he would play it by ear.  

He giggled at the thought that it would be
amusing to fuck the old woman. He could first start with her vagina, then move
to her mouth, and finally pound her ass. Hopefully, she wouldn't bite off his
dick. He bet it would look hot on video. What did they call this type of
movies? Mature porn, right?

He covered his face with his hands and
burst out laughing so hard that the tears came to his eyes. How long had it
been since Jane had last had a dick in her pussy? Late nineties? Actually, it
made for a cool life milestone: ‘Oh, it happened two years after George had
fucked me last.’ George was the woman’s husband, by the way; he had died
recently.

Who said her husband was the last man to
play with her pussy?

He reached for the plastic bag that sat on
the front passenger seat. The bag contained a well sharpened knife, which had a
lot of work to do tonight. A lot of intensive work: he intended to stab so many
holes in the old bitch it would take every finger and toe you have to count
them.  

He glanced at his watch again. 7:27 pm. He
was glad that Jane was old and feeble and it would only take one good punch to
the skull to knock her out. Besides, she must still be depressed about George’s
death. Yes, this little adventure promised to be the easiest kill he had ever
made. 

5.

After drinking half a glass of juice, Jane
resumed knitting. She kept thinking about George and the twenty years ahead of
her.

How about moving to Florida? True, it was
another cliché, but who said that she must avoid clichés? They were familiar
and safe.

She slowed down her knitting to consider
this idea more thoroughly. She had discussed moving to Florida with George last
year, and George was fine with it. What had been stopping them? Perhaps inertia
as well as the desire to live closer to their only granddaughter.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind never seeing snow
again,” said George. “And I can do a whole lot of fishing down there, too.”  

When she told him that she’d prefer to stay
within driving distance from Kathy, George shrugged his shoulders and said that
he was okay with any choice she would make.  

“However, it never hurts to change the
scenery once in a while,” he remarked.  

Now she was getting more open to the idea
of moving down south. Why not? She wasn’t that attached to having all four
seasons and Rochester had gotten quite boring as most places would after twenty
years. She was only sixty, it was not too late. They had no winter in Florida,
and she would never catch cold again, which was a big plus. Selling her house
for a good price in the down market would be a challenge, but Kelly’s friend
Josephine could give her a hand in this matter: she and her husband Ron were
involved in real estate and had done very well for themselves.

Jane returned to her regular knitting
speed. She had decided to call Kelly tomorrow and discuss this idea with her.
Her daughter might actually convince to make the move. Or talk her out of it.
After all, Jane could eventually need Kelly’s help finding a nice place in
Florida and packing up her stuff.

6.

He slammed the car door and headed to the
old woman's house. Eight seconds ago the big hand hit six, and he had gone into
action. He had a neat ten-inch-long knife wrapped in a cloth in his jacket
pocket.  

He was walking fast, stirring up the dry,
writhing leaves on the ground under his feet. He was picturing his future a few
minutes from now. Here he is throwing his powerful fist at Jane’s face; she
cries ‘ahhhhhh’ and collapses on the floor, her mouth open, her crushed cheek
turning red. Here he is ripping off her shirt, yanking off her sweatpants and
panties (he wondered what kind of panties sixty-year-old women typically wore),
and thrusting his dick into her pussy. Here he is poking Jane’s eyes with his
thumbs; here he is plunging the knife into her flabby breasts (which hardly
deserve to be called breasts), blood splashing into the air and streaming down
Jane’s chest and stomach. Here he is sticking the knife into her vagina; the
old bitch is twitching like a caterpillar eaten by a bunch of ants. Here he is
ripping up her stomach, blood gushing out on the floor; Jane is wheezing and
moaning. Minutes later the old woman is dead.

Damn, he ought to be careful with blood: it
might stain his jacket, which he’d like to avoid.

Where was he going to have his fun with the
old woman? Probably in the living room; there was more space there. Yeah, he
would drag Jane to the living room after striking her in the face (or on the
back of the head). 

Maybe he should break her spine once he was
done raping and stabbing her? Jane’s bones were old and frail; he would snap
her like a twig.  

7.

She heard a noise coming from the front
door. It seemed as if something had fallen on the porch. Or somebody had
stomped on it. A neighbor? Or was it just kids playing in her yard? Did she
even care?

Jane interrupted her knitting, muted the
TV, and strained her ears. Could it be Kelly and Kathy making a surprise visit?
Maybe Kelly wanted her to babysit Kathy while she and her husband were on some
trip out of town? 

There was no more noise. Jane settled back
in the chair, keeping her ears keen for any sounds. Her house was still silent.
It might have been a onetime thing after all. She looked at the clock. 7:36.
Jane had just remembered that this wall clock was five minutes fast. 

Someday she ought to take the time to
adjust all the clocks and watches she owned. Maybe tomorrow.

8.

At 8:11 pm he turned on the cold water faucet
and began to wash his hands. Blood is dumb and random; you can't order it not
to splash on your body parts. Fortunately, the sleeves of his jacket were
virginally clean. As he watched the water flowing into the drain hole turn from
dark pink to clear, it occurred to him that he would have sweated less if he
had taken off the jacket.