Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (14 page)

Hands on hips, standing over Donovan, the policeman spoke in a thick Brooklyn accent. “All right, I've had about enough. Chasin’ you outta da park at night is one thing, but you're just bustin’ my balls now. People tellin’ me you're stalkin’ their kids. Get up, you piece of shit.” He nudged Donovan with the toe of his black shoe. Unaware, Donovan continued whimpering his daughter's name. “Gonna make dis hard on both of us, are you?” said the cop. He squeezed the mic on his shoulder, calling for backup.

"Officer,” a man in dark sunglasses called from the back seat of a car idling at the curb. “Let me save you some paperwork. I'll take care of this gentleman for you. He's an old friend just having a bad day."

"I don't care who da hell he is. He's scaring kids and taking up precious space in my park. If he's not outta here in two minutes, he'll have a room without a view for da night."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary, officer."

He disappeared as his window hummed to a close. Another man emerged from the driver's side dressed in a fine black suit. Body like a pro wrestler, skin satin black, he gathered up Donovan from the sidewalk like a rag doll. The diamond in the man's earlobe winked at the cop in the afternoon sunlight as he carried Donovan around the car, depositing him in the back seat. With the big man back behind the wheel, they slipped away into the weekend traffic.

Shaking his head, Mister Sunglasses said, “Donovan, Donovan, Donovan. I've been looking for you. Where have you been hiding? Frittering away your life, I see ... a most important life, at that."

A cool glass was placed in Donovan's hands. Deeply thirsty, he managed to drink the sweet liquid in two greedy swallows, leaving some to dribble down his chin. Head lolling, he tried to focus his alcohol-soaked brain on what was happening, but soon the drink, the smooth ride, and the comfort of the soft leather seat put him into a deep sleep. After a long time drifting with a blissfully empty mind, he dreamed.

This time, instead of being a helpless witness to another death, he saw himself signing the contract, his bloodstained fingers smearing across the white paper at the scene of his wife's death. The picture suddenly slowed down, and his frantic actions came to a halt. For the first time, beneath the bloody fingerprints, he could see the contract:

Terms and Conditions

1a. The life you have chosen to retain will heretofore be exchanged with a death of your choosing. If you are unable to make that choice for any reason, a death will be chosen for you.

1b. In signing this contract, you are agreeing that your own death will occur, at a later date, in a life exchange at the convenience and necessity of the Contractor. Before death, your services may be required at any time and in any form deemed necessary by the Contractor. Should you try to alter the outcome of this agreement beyond the bounds stated in this instrument, strict penalties greater than death will be levied against you immediately upon discovery [see section 3b for definition of penalties].

Liability

2a. The Contractor may not be held responsible for any life circumstances that may arise from your choice of life retention or death choice. Once this document is signed by the Customer and the Contractor, the agreement is final and no changes to this agreement will be considered. [For exceptions please refer to section 22r.]

Donovan's dreaming mind anxiously scanned the document for section 22r, but the sound of a slamming door jolted him awake. He struggled to go back to sleep, to the dream. He needed to read the contract, but he felt the waking world drag him to consciousness. At the
click
of a turning lock he opened his eyes, startled to find himself lying on a bed, clean sheets tucked beneath his chin. With a slight chill on his scalp, he reached up to feel his hair was damp and cropped short. Still groggy, he pulled back the covers and put his feet on the clean carpet of an immaculate motel room. Making his way to the window, he peered out over the dark parking lot. A light in the tidy flowerbed around the wooden sign illuminated rough-cut letters, “The Devil's Den Motel, Eastville, Virginia—Open Year ‘Round.” The parking lot was empty, but the “No Vacancy” sign glared neon red into the night.

Standing there, bewildered by how he ended up at The Devil's Den Motel in a pair of new boxer shorts, Donovan remembered the hazy events that had occurred just before he'd fallen asleep ... and the contract dream. He felt a sudden urgency to write down what little he remembered before it slipped away completely. Grabbing the pen and notepad by the phone, he leaned over the desk, and with a trembling hand he jotted as many details as he could remember. But at the edge of his mind's eye he saw the bloody fingerprints smeared across the contract ... his wife's blood. But she was alive and Becka was alive. The depth of his sorrow for his missing family stabbed at his gut. As always, his concern for them was soon followed by the choking guilt for the small child crushed by the Oldsmobile. The sound of the woman screaming rang in his mind—looking directly at him from the crowd, she had pointed an accusing finger. “You did this!"

At the time of the accident, Ally had grabbed his hand and rushed him away from the scene, annoyed that the woman had singled Donovan out as the cause of the child's death.

"What's wrong with that woman?” she'd said. “You had nothing to do with that accident. How dare she blame you for her own negligence. If she'd been watching the child, that couldn't have happened.” Seeing the upset on Donovan's face, she'd given his hand a gentle squeeze. “Don't give it another thought, honey. It's a terrible tragedy, but there's nothing you could have done. I guarantee, you'll never have to worry about our baby being put in such danger.” She'd smiled at him reassuringly and patted her pregnant belly.

Swooning with a rush of nausea, Donovan's thoughts were pulled back to the motel room. Grabbing the edge of the desk to steady himself, he twisted around just in time to find the trash can as his stomach emptied itself in a hurry. With a final dry heave, the rhythm of his spasming stomach finally subsided, and he was left covered in a sheen of cold sweat. He waited, then stood up slowly, trying to avoid another swoon.

Donovan had no idea how much time had passed since the incident in the park, but it was enough to leave him in obvious alcohol withdrawal. He dragged himself to the bathroom, and after rinsing his mouth of the rank taste of bile, he splashed handfuls of water on his face, trying to ease the pounding in his head. He avoided his reflection in the mirror. He needed a drink.

Stumbling back into the room, he searched for his clothes. He didn't care if they were clean or filthy; he just needed to get out and get his hands on a bottle. He checked the closet, finding several fine tailored suits and pressed shirts. Hanging beside them were new jeans, T-shirts, and a warm leather jacket. New shoes and sneakers sat in a neat row on the floor beneath the hanging clothes. Donovan fingered the soft leather of the coat, wondering who had brought him here. Then he recalled something the man in the black limo said to him before he fell asleep. “Donovan, Donovan, Donovan. I've been looking for you ... a most important life, at that.” Now he remembered him—the slick black hair, the sunglasses—the man with the contract.

A most important life? He balked at the irony. His life was a hell he couldn't wait to drown again in a nice deep bottle of Jack, but any booze would do right now. Head still pounding, he grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt from the closet. He dressed in a hurry and shoved his feet in the sneakers, nearly passing out when he bent down to tie them.

Plopping down in a chair by the bed, he noticed paperwork lined up neatly on the side table: a bill for The Devil's Den Motel marked
paid in full
for one year; a bank statement in Donovan's name with a balance of $10,000; a debit card paper-clipped to the top with a note—
To be replenished monthly
; and a business card for a private driver with no last name, just
Easy
.

Already confused by his location, the clothes, the haircut, not to mention the fact that someone had undressed and bathed him, and now they were giving him money. As much of a relief as it was to be clean and out of the park, the whole scene was too strange. Donovan stripped the pillowcase from the bed and shoved shoes, clothes, and anything else he could fit inside the makeshift luggage for a quick getaway. As he shrugged into the leather jacket, the phone rang with a piercing old-fashioned bell, jangling Donovan's already frayed nerves. Reflexively, he grabbed the phone, if only to stop the noise. He answered without thinking, regretting it immediately.

"What?"

"Mister Hunter, I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I was instructed to check in to see if there's anything you need."

"Who in the hell are you?"

"My name is Sienna, and I am your personal dream liaison."

"Look, I don't know who you are or what the fuck you're talking about, but I've had enough of this—"

"Mr. Hunter, for the safety of your wife and daughter I suggest that you cooperate fully. Any diversion from your contractual obligation will result in their immediate and painful deaths. We are keeping them alive and luxuriously cared for in your name, Mr. Hunter. Their comfort is not part of our legal obligation, but we're providing it as a special courtesy to you."

"Where are they?” shouted Donovan. “Where are my wife and daughter?"

"I cannot disclose their location. I can tell you that they are unaware of your circumstances, and they believe it is you who is providing for their luxurious lifestyle. They've been instructed that they are to have no contact with you, and in order to maintain your support, your wife must send periodic letters affirming the well-being of herself and your child. Per our contractual agreement, you will receive these letters—once they've been scrubbed of unacceptable details—to verify that your family is still alive."

Donovan's head pounded and he felt faint. He dropped down on the bed, massaging his forehead, drained by the confusion and the threat to his family.

"I don't understand what's going on here."

"You'll receive a package from a courier tomorrow afternoon. All the instructions you need will be in that package. If you have any questions following a thorough examination of the equipment and manual, you may call my answering service. I'll return your call as soon as possible. You'll find my contact information in the instruction packet."

In that moment, the years of stress, the threat to his family and the strange ordeal he found himself in all crashed in on him. Trying to hold back the tears, his shoulders shook with his muffled sobs.

"Why are you doing this to me?” he said, his voice barely audible.

"Mr. Hunter, you'll want for nothing. Once you've completed a trial period and proven reliable, you'll be rewarded with greater freedom and everything you could ever desire. But in the meantime, you'll be confined to a five mile radius of your room and you will be accompanied by a trained companion whenever you leave The Devil's Den ... Motel."

Donovan was shaking. His shirt was damp with sweat. “I need a drink,” he said.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hunter. Alcohol will inhibit your ability to do your job. I suggest you get some rest. The courier will be arriving tomorrow, and you will be required to begin work in the evening. Good night, Mr. Hunter."

The dial tone buzzed in Donovan's ear. “Hello? Hello?” He pressed the buttons on the phone, dialing 911. The phone beeped at him with a busy signal. He tried again and the line clicked off. No dial tone; no busy signal. Donovan swept the phone off the table and it smashed against the wall.

Nausea squeezed at his stomach. Light-headed, he staggered to the door and gripped the handle—it was locked from the outside. He pounded and kicked the door until his hands and feet were bruised. He tried the window, but it was locked, too. Nearly blind with the throbbing pain in his head, he picked up the desk chair and threw it at the window, but it bounced back off the thick glass and hit him in the chest, knocking him to the floor.

Lying there panting in his pain and rage, Donovan closed his eyes and let the tears flow. Broken, defeated and completely lost, the sobs wracked his chest until he felt empty. Exhaustion finally released him from his waking agony and delivered him to a deep sleep where the pain of his dreaming world took over:

Sitting at an outdoor café, Donovan notices the steam of his espresso swirling above his cup. Everything appears vivid and strangely alive. A bright slash of morning sun shines on the golden hair of the woman at the table in front of him. She feeds little bits of bright orange melon to the toddler in the stroller beside her; a tiny drop of juice glistens on the baby's chin.

"Zoooom! Open the hangar, Matty,” says the young woman.

The child giggles as they play airplane with the food, his eyes bright with the game.

Chaos erupts suddenly as an old man collapses on a nearby sidewalk, his hat rolling into the gutter. He clutches his chest and the woman with him screams for help. The man gasps for breath and he reaches for her, but his arm falls limp to the sidewalk. The old woman cries, gripping his lifeless hand and bringing it to her chest.

"Morty! Don't leave me. Morty ... darling ... I love you. Please ... someone...?"

People gather around her and a man in a suit kneels down to help. Light glints off of his dark sunglasses, then everything freezes in place, including Donovan. He can't move, and everything around him is silent except for the voice of the man in the suit and the crying woman.

"I can make it so that your husband will be fine, Missus Schwartz. Please sign here,” he says, holding out the contract and the pen.

The old woman's reply is muffled as she sobs, her expression a mixture of confusion and grief. The man points his pen in the direction of the blond-haired woman and the toddler. A piece of airplaning melon is still on the fork between them. In a confidential tone, he rattles off a quick explanation, then Donovan clearly hears him say, “You have 30 seconds to sign or the deal is off."