Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife (12 page)

“Give me the cutters. Quick, quick,” Hart said to Brandy, who was wailing in pain. He slapped at her leg with great impatience until she passed them to him.

“Wait,” he yelled to Summer.

She turned around.

Hart looked down. “Help me. Please,” he said, barely able to get out the words.

Summer sighed. “That’s what I’m doing, Hart. I’m going to get the police. They’ll get you off of here.”

She only hoped they’d believe her. After all, she’d been the one to cut the bridge, Hart’s confession was gone and it would be two against one. Maybe getting the police wasn’t such a great idea after all.

“No. No cops. Help me off this bridge or I swear I’ll cut this last rope.” He had positioned the cutters and was holding the handles at the ready.

“No!” Brandy screamed as she began to drag herself toward the north end of the bridge.

“Shut up, Brandy!” he shouted, looking over his shoulder. The simple act of turning around and then back again made him wince in pain. “I’m not kidding, Summer. If I die, you die.”

“Hart,” she shook her head. “You can’t hurt me anymore.”

“Don’t test me, Summer. I got nothing to lose.”

By now Brandy had gotten herself onto her one good foot and began to hobble her way toward the end of the bridge.

Summer turned around again and began walking away. “Stop talking and do what you have to do, Hart.”

“Dammit,” he said, rubbing his face.

“Don’t do it Hart! Don’t do it!” Brandy wailed over her shoulder, hopping on one foot, trying to speed up.

Hart squeezed the cutters slowly hoping Summer would feel the collapsing bridge and know he meant business. If she did feel anything, she didn’t react.

He was about to give it a final squeeze when the bridge gave way, the final rope unable to do the job of all the supports anymore.

As the rope snapped, gravity took over. Brandy tried to scream but anything audible that was there caught in her throat as the north half of the bridge went pummeling toward the wall of the gorge.

She wasn’t sure what was worse, falling straight down to her certain death or crashing into the side of the gorge and then falling to her certain death. Unable to think clearly, by pure instinct, she squeezed whatever rope she could wrap her hands around and held on for all she could.

She clenched her teeth and right before hitting this natural edifice, an image flashed in her mind of her holding on and using the bridge like a ladder that would carry her to safety. But that idea was smashed, along with her body, as she drove, like a human wrecking ball, into the great wall of the gorge and was subsequently flicked away.

And even though Hart had contributed greatly to knocking over that last domino, he couldn’t help being taken off guard. It felt like a trap door had been triggered and the effect was instant and terrifying. The ultimate helplessness. He was moving faster than he could comprehend. He looked down and to the side and finally up. And that’s when he saw it. The sky was being blocked out by a big green canopy. And just below it was Summer. And she was yelling.

“Is this enough dramatic flair for you, Hart?”

He probably didn’t hear her but it sure felt good to say it.

S
UMMER WOULDN’T HAVE much time. In what would seem like a counterintuitive move under any other circumstance, she pulled on the toggles and was actually trying to steer her parachute into—or more technically, toward—the south wall of the gorge. If she could pull this off it would save her an innumerable amount of time and heartache.

She had two things going for her. She had put her hand on the ripcord right after her last conversation with Hart and her reflexes in pulling it without much delay— whether out of skill or fear—had been excellent.

The second fortunate thing was that she had been moving down the bridge in the right direction, toward the south wall, when the final rope had given way. As a result she was almost directly over her target when she had yanked the cord.

Her idea was to grab onto the rope that was now hanging down from the tree that she had tied it to when she had switched things up on Hart. If things had gone according to her original plan, she would have gotten Hart and Brandy’s confession on tape and cut the bridge when they had been on the north end of the gorge. Then she would have returned with the police and they would have used the rope that was tied to the tree to reel up the bridge.

The rope in question, that was now hanging down the south end of the gorge, was close to two hundred feet long and had now taken the form of a giant loop.

This brainstorm was all improvisation of course. Other than having the foresight to put on a parachute container under her sweat suit jacket, the way everything had unfolded would have been impossible to have planned out and if this didn’t work she would have had to have found a way back up the gorge from the bottom.

At a certain point Summer could no longer steer as she needed both hands to grab the rope, so she was forced to let go of the steering toggles.

When she finally did grab the rope she was about ten feet from the bottom of the loop and while the parachute slowed her down she was still moving pretty quickly. Forced to slide down the rope, as the parachute descended, was painful and she was scared of losing the skin on her hands. In order to slow down more, she wrapped her legs around the rope. At least her pants would protect her somewhat. This turned out to be a good move because as she slid downward, she simply guided her feet into the bottom of the loop. Then she bent her legs slowly and came to a relatively gradual stop.

By this time Summer was drenched in sweat. As she looked down into the gorge as far as she could, she was grateful that she was up here.

Using the rope and the natural texture of the walls in front of her, Summer took her time as she scaled what was just another hurdle. Back on top again.

The top of the newspaper read: The Local Buzz

Cardsdale, CA

Circulation 438

It had a graphic of a bee next to the word ‘Buzz’. Summer sat with perfect posture at her desk. She studied the insect for a moment before allowing her eyes to drift downward to the headline. It blared with excitement:

CORRECTION: HUSBAND AND WIFE’S
COUSIN
DIE IN FIERY EXPLOSION

It had been the biggest story to hit Cardsdale since Huncke’s stopped serving homemade pie.

Summer scanned down the page when she felt a pair of hands rest on her neck. Hart’s face flashed in her mind and without hesitation she dropped the newspaper, seized the intruding fingers, whirled around and pinned them behind the offender’s back in one fluid motion.

“Okay, okay, take it easy. I give up,” he said.

“Oh, Mr. Day. It’s you,” said Summer releasing Bob’s fingers. He spun around and embraced her.

“I asked you not to call me that, Mrs. Day,” he said, his lips moving close to hers.

“Sorry,” she said, in between kisses. “Old habits die hard.”

“Mommy! Mommy!” the two girls yelled as they skidded into the room, breaking Bob and Summer’s embrace like bowling balls rolling into a couple of pins.

“And?” said Bob, feigning anger.

They both screamed out
Daddy!
and everyone hugged everyone goodnight.

“Now off to bed now. It’s getting late. I’ll tuck you girls in, in a minute.”

The girls ran giggling off as the couple drifted back into each other’s arms.

“Coming to bed?” Bob asked.

“Soon. I just have a few briefs to look over first.”

“Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”

Summer kept one arm around Bob’s waist as she nudged the yellowing newspaper out of the way and reached for a file on her desk.

“See this?” she asked, with a good-natured twinkle. The file read
Day and Day Attorneys at Law

“Alright, I get you.”

They hugged again and exchanged kisses, before he turned and headed toward the door.

“Goodnight, Counselor.”

“Goodnight, Counselor.”

“Hey, Bob.”

“Yeah, Sweetheart,” he said turning his head.

“You ever regret making me a partner?”

He smiled. “Not on any level.”

LUCKY STEVENS’

THE PULL OUT METHOD

IS NOW AVAILABLE

Turn the page for a sneak preview...

T
HE TIMING, DEPENDING on how you look at it, was perfect. They entered just like anyone else, and no one paid any attention to them at all. Two men dressed in brown UPX uniforms, hauling boxes, generally don’t raise too many eyebrows. Both men wore dark sunglasses, which was pretty normal, considering the blazing sun outside, and both sported full goatees.

The shorter of the two approached the security guard, who looked like a walking cliché. He was about seventy years old or so, and looked as though he’d have trouble guarding his own breakfast. The shorter man mumbled something inaudible to him, which made the guard chuckle.
Now that had to be a courtesy chuckle
, the man thought to himself.
Even I don’t know what I said.

By now, the taller of the two men decked out in United Parcel X-press uniforms was bending down and tying his shoe a few feet behind the guard. The first man looked at the guard and repeated his gibberish as if expecting an answer.

The guard squinted and, getting the feeling that more than just a chuckle was required of him, craned his neck forward, turning his head in the process. By then it was too late. The guard’s tie was securely clenched in the man’s strong grip, and the taller man had already bounded over and removed the guard’s gun from its holster. With their free hands, both men reached under their caps, grabbed their sunglasses, and pulled ski masks over their faces, both of their “goatees” dropping to the floor as they did so. They then replaced their sunglasses back over their masks.

“On the floor, Pops,” the taller man, Duke, said to the guard, giving him a little nudge. Then he fired the guard’s gun into the ceiling while the shorter man, Bobby, ran over to the doors and wrapped a cable and padlock around the handles.

“Everybody get down on the floor!” yelled Duke, his voice loud and gravelly.

“Down on the floor,” repeated Bobby, brandishing his own weapon, a nine millimeter.

Both men pointed their guns around the room. And as if it had been rehearsed, the screams, whimpering, and uncontrollable sobbing began immediately. “And just so there aren’t any misunderstandings, yes, this is a bank robbery. Now the good news is, we just need some walking-around money. The bad news is, we do
a lot
of walking,” said Duke.

Fran McDougal, a veteran teller, was shivering, her finger hovering around the silent alarm button before finally pushing it.

Duke’s eyes were on fire as he zeroed in on a closed office door toward the back of the bank. The sign on the door read, “George Sullivan Bank Manager.”

“George!” bellowed Duke as he stomped toward the door, thrusting it open. George Sullivan was cowering in the corner, his arms moving up and down in front of his face like a flinchy boxer.

“I’m sorry, I thought you said, ‘Come in,’” said Duke. “Come on, George.” He grabbed the back of George’s neck and led him out, back into the main lobby. “Or do you prefer Mr. Sullivan?” George’s lips were moving, but nothing was coming out. “Whatsa matter? You act like this is your first robbery. Get over there.” Duke pointed to the floor, near some other hostages.

By now, Bobby had placed thick black bags over all the security cameras that he could reach and had spray-painted over the lenses of those he couldn’t reach.

“Now, what the hell is this ladder doing here?” asked Duke. “Don’t you people know this is dangerous?” And then to Bobby: “Number Two, get everyone into a circle over there, around the corner, near Mr. Sullivan’s office. Take care of their cell phones.” Duke looked at the orange fiberglass ladder. “Gonzalez A/C” was written down its side. Then he looked up at the opening in the ceiling.

“I need all employees of Gonzalez A/C to get their asses down here!”

W
HEN LIFE GIVES YOU SHIT, make lemonade. Never in my life would I need those words more than last Sunday. Especially as I was on my way to see
her
. Hard to believe at the time, but she would almost be the least of my problems.

She was a wild girl. Lulu. Absolutely balls-to-the-wall crazy and fun. And she excited me to no end. Hell, I was only eighteen years old when we had met and I’d been running with the bottom end of the lineup by then for a good three years. I saw no end in sight, a false sense of invincibility having snuffed out what little common sense I had at the time.

At nineteen I joined the army.

“What’re you nuts, baby?” I remember my grandma saying at the time. Then again, that’s what she said about my going out with the previously mentioned
her
, too. I guess at the time, I didn’t care what anybody said. You see, those were the good old days—when I knew everything.

Anyway, I joined the army. It seemed like the thing to do. And all throughout those four miserable, yet fairly educational, years, Lulu and I were going strong, or so I thought.

Yeah, that was the life, all right. Free room and board and weekend furloughs. And of course, the drinking, drugs, and small petty crimes. It must have been fun, because I don’t remember it that well.

All that changed, though, on February 22, 2007. That’s the day Trevor was born, and the day I decided to try to be a better person. It didn’t even occur to me until a few years later that he might not actually even be mine. But by then, it didn’t matter. I saw his tiny face, little fingers, and curly hair, and I guess I was hooked.

Now, when I said that everything changed that day, I need to be more clear. It was more like the beginning of a change. One that would come slowly and, I guess I hate to say, still seems to be going on. That’s me. Lulu is, and was, a different story.

She hadn’t changed a bit after Trevor was born. I guess I was a little surprised, but couldn’t really blame her. I mean, I was “smart” enough to pick her, right? And she was
exactly
what the outside wrapping advertised—a crazy, stupid, out-of-control train wreck waiting to happen. In other words, everything I had been on February 21, 2007.

Anyway, these were the thoughts that rolled around in my mind as I drove down Laurel Canyon toward her apartment on Highlander Street. Now I’m going to be completely honest with you. At that moment, I still hadn’t totally adjusted to the idea of being a father. I mean, I always loved my son, but, I don’t know, I guess the responsible, “picket fence” lifestyle is what was tripping me up.

In any event, things were happening that suggested I better quickly get used to the idea of fatherhood and all it entailed. It was Sunday, and the next day was my hearing in front of a judge in downtown L.A. Depending on what his decision was, Trevor could be coming to live with me full-time.

I’m actually the one who set off this legal action and even my lawyer didn’t give me much of a chance. I’ve seen
Kramer vs. Kramer
. The system almost always favors the mother. But I had to do it. I just didn’t like the way my ex was doing things—nothing terrible, or so I thought, but I just knew Trevor deserved more. And it didn’t take long for me to realize I knew I was doing the right thing.

It all started when I first mentioned to Lulu that I’d like to spend more time with Trevor. For $100,000 to cover “child support,” I could keep him permanently, she said. And I guess as her idea of a bonus, neither one of us would ever see her again. Her bizarre twisting of the term “child support” aside, her meaning came in loud and clear. I filed for custody the next day.

So why head over to her apartment? All I can say is that morning when I woke up, I felt strange. Empty. I had a bad feeling about it, and I kept telling myself that the hearing was tomorrow. Just wait and see what happens. But I couldn’t. An overwhelming desire came over me like I just had to see my son. The anticipation gnawed at the back of my brain.

I started thinking about my ex and how nicely she can put herself together when she wants to. I thought about the great front she can put up. A born actress. And for the first time since this whole thing began, I thought about the $100,000. I thought maybe it would just be better to give her the money. Make a clean break and start all over. I guess the fact that I was about $99,000 light didn’t really occur to me at that moment in time. And the idea of avoiding a courtroom certainly appealed to me as well, having never had a good experience in any of the courtrooms I’d ever been in.

As I turned right onto Highlander, my stomach dropped. I had only been there once before, and that was at night. The sun hung in the sky like an over-watted light bulb, shining brightly as the cockroaches dove for cover. Only these cockroaches weren’t going anywhere. They felt too at home among the abandoned cars, appliances, and skin-and-bone mattresses that decorated the trashy sidewalks and curbs of this semi-suburban Beirut. The cover of night did this place justice.

As I turned my head from the filth of the sidewalks back to the filth of the street, I suddenly slammed on my brakes, barely missing a gang of young boys who had bolted out of nowhere to cross right in front of my car. They were completely unfazed by the screeching of my tires, floating by like crashing waves. They seemed to almost bounce off of each other in different directions, but yet they somehow seemed to be all gummed together. The small stack of books that sat on the passenger side of the front seat weren’t so lucky, as they scattered in all directions—Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Orwell one way, Steinbeck and Dr. Seuss, another.

I exhaled loudly, stopping long enough for my body to collapse within itself. I let my head drop, totally aware of the fact that my foot was firmly on the brake. And when I finally looked up, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing was real. It was Trevor.

He was playing, by himself, about ten yards from my car. My immediate reaction was visceral, angry. But my brain took over and I decided to be calm, take it in, and try not to overreact.

I looked around. He was definitely alone. Completely unsupervised. Three and a half years old.
Three and a half years old!
my brain screamed. My son. Filthy and playing in garbage, in nothing more than a diaper and a thin white t-shirt. Staying calm suddenly seemed a lot harder.

But for his sake, I did stay calm. The last thing I wanted to do was freak him out. I prayed there was some kind of misunderstanding, but certainly couldn’t fathom what it could be.

After I parked the car, I approached my son.

“Trev—” I said softly, this single word catching as my throat closed. It caught me off guard. It felt so surreal. Literally not being able to speak.

He immediately broke from his trance, and from the little song he was singing. His mouth opened wide and curled into a broad smile.

“Daddy!” he yelled. He scrambled to his feet, and we ran toward each other. I held him so tightly, I was almost scared I’d hurt him. I didn’t want to let go. I was still afraid I wouldn’t be able to talk yet, as puddles collected on my lower eyelids.

I was strangely aware of my gathering tears and dreaded that inevitable first blink that would squeeze them out and send them rolling down my cheeks.

“Why you’re crying, Daddy?”

I laughed, as I thought about how his question was filled with such an unaware innocence. And how his words made me want to cry even harder.

“I’m just so happy to see you, Trevor.” My voice shivered and cracked, but I had gotten the words out.

As I climbed the stairs to Lulu’s apartment, Trevor’s grip around my neck seemed to tighten. He began to shake, and a feeling of anxiousness washed over me. I’d have to think of something else; this wasn’t the time to confront her. I turned to go back down.

“I want my teddy bear, Daddy.”

“Where is it?” I said. I tried to sound calm.

“In Mommy’s house.”

I sighed. “We’re gonna have to get it later, Trevor. I’m sorry.”

He began to cry softly as I walked down the stairs. By the time I had reached the last step, his shaking had almost stopped. His grip around my neck was looser. Leaving was a good idea, and I headed toward my car.

“Reggie.”

The voice was unfamiliar.

I turned around and saw a woman in her late sixties, early seventies. She had a face that looked like she’d worked hard all her life and really had nothing to show for it. But still, there was a sweetness to it. She wore a flower print dress that for some reason caught my eye during those first few seconds when you sum someone up.

“Yes?” I said. Despite her, uh, harmlessness, I felt on guard. I guess it was the circumstances.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

The See’s Candy lady flashed in my mind. My anxiety intensified. I really didn’t want to take any walks down memory lane. Not now.

“We weren’t in the same kindergarten together, were we?” I don’t know why I said it, but I did. I hoped it didn’t sound snotty or sarcastic.

Fortunately, she laughed.

“I’m Mrs. Haynes.”

“Oh, oh yeah, I remember you. You used to babysit me every once in a while.”

“Right, right. And you know I’m still friends with your grandma.”

I smiled. “Mrs. Haynes, could you do me a favor?” Lulu’s apartment door was halfway open. I opened it the rest of way with my purposely careless knock. I expected it to be messy, but the place was a pigsty. A lot worse than I thought it would be. But then again, Lulu could always clean up pretty good, I mean
well
, when she wanted to. Like if she had known I was coming, for example, you wouldn’t have recognized the place. It was part of what worried me about facing her in court, the next day. Unlike that moment, the next day, she wouldn’t be surprised. With a little advanced warning, she really knows how to put on a show.

Her head, which was resting soundly on the couch, seemed to percolate upward as her glassy eyes scanned for familiarity. She wore a t-shirt whose hem—if that’s what it’s called—landed just below her navel. Beneath that was a pair of white cotton panties, and nothing else. I hate to admit it, but she still turned me on.

“Reggie?”

I completely ignored my unwilling and sick attraction to her, and with Trevor safely in Mrs. Haynes’ care, I let loose.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I said. My mouth barely opened, due to the fact that I couldn’t seem to stop clenching my teeth.

“What? Whuz with you?” she slurred as she casually stumbled down the hall. I followed. I could smell the alcohol on her breath.

When she reached the end of the hall, she stepped through the door, pulled down her panties, and backed her way onto the toilet. Over the gushing sound of Niagara Falls, I continued.

“Do you know that I just found Trevor outside by himself playing in a pile of filth right by the street?”

“Who?” she slurred.

“Trevor! Our son!”

She laughed. “I know, I know who yer talkin’ about. I’m just kidding...God.”

I could feel the sweat puddling on the back of my neck. I wanted to kill her. I won’t lie, I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and just squeeze the demented life out of her.

Instead, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. By now, Lulu had finished in the bathroom. Quite the environmentalist, too. I guess flushing the toilet and washing your hands wastes a little too much water.

“All right. I’m taking Trevor and I’ll see you in court tomorrow,” I said.

“Whatya’ mean you’re taking him? I got legal cus’ody.”

I took out my phone and began taking pictures of her apartment. “Not after tomorrow you won’t.”

“Oh fuck you. Those pictures don’t mean shit,” she said. She seemed to be sobering up. “Besides, you got two strikes on you. You’re not getting no cus’ody.”

I kept on taking pictures—of the dirty dishes, the clothes all over the floor, the trash, the half-eaten food, the alcohol bottles, and even the primarily empty refrigerator— as if I hadn’t heard her. But I had heard her, and she was right.

I do have two strikes. And for those of you who don’t know, in California, after your third strike, or y’know, felony, in other words, you go to jail for life. Ironically, as a father who wants a safer world for his son, I think it’s a pretty good law, but uh, anyway, here we are.

I’m not proud of my crimes, and to be honest, like all ex-cons, I should have more than two strikes. After all, you only get those strikes when you’re caught.

Not that it’s an excuse, but most of what I did, I did when I was young—not to mention stupid. Stealing cars, mainly. That’s when I first got pinched, as an adult that is. My juvenile record had been expunged and I decided to celebrate by stealing a cop’s car. Only I didn’t know it was a cop’s car. The judge didn’t seem to care. I got a year in prison for that one. I was a regular Einstein all right.

I guess I didn’t get the message, because after I got out, I continued stealing cars, before and
during
my army years. I never got caught again for it though, so I guess I did learn something.

The last thing I got in trouble for, was for something completely different. It also has a bit of irony to it. It was actually the only violent offense I ever committed. Up until then, I had never even seen any of my victims. Not that this guy was exactly a victim.

What happened was, one night me and Lulu—I mean Lulu and
I
—were in a bar having a few beers when something happened, I don’t remember what, but anyway, this guy starts saying he’s going to kill Lulu. At first I thought he was kidding, but he starts getting angrier and angrier, and I really looked at him and realized he was serious. Next thing I know he pulls out a knife and lunges with it, at Lulu. Then he and I started really brawling. He got in a couple good shots, but it ended when I broke his jaw. They never found the knife, and I guess he must have looked worse than I did, because he got three months and I got eight. Strike two.

What made it ironic was that I got my second strike saving Lulu’s life so that five years later she could use that second strike against me to try to get custody of our son who wouldn’t even be here today if I hadn’t saved her life.