MELT: A Psychological Thriller (27 page)

The door couldn't shut because of Anita's bag.

The bag’s strap was snagged on Carl's seat controls.

The door bounced open and Carl saw Anita dragging beside the car.

Oh, God no.

All he could see was her face.

She screamed the same word over and over: 'STOP!'

'She's caught,' yelled Carl. 'Stop!'

'Fuck her!' yelled Hank.

Carl punched Hank with adrenaline-fueled strength. Hank's head shattered the driver-side window. His hands fell from the steering wheel.

Carl yanked up the handbrake. The car skidded. Carl bounced off the dashboard and out his open door. He tumbled from the car the moment it stopped moving.

He found himself lying beside Anita.

Gently, he untwisted the strap from her wrist.

'Carl.'

Carl looked up into a gun barrel. Blood streamed down Hank's face.

Hank aimed the gun across the passenger seat, out the door, and straight into Carl's face. 'Get back in the fucking car.'

Carl shook his head.

He heard the first police siren.

'Fuck you then!' yelled Hank, curling his finger on the trigger.

All at the same time, as the gun went off, Carl slammed shut the car door and covered Anita with his body. He never knew if Hank's bullet passed through the car door. Hank roared away before Carl even lifted his head.

When he did lift his head, he peered around for the police car. The siren sounded deafening. Almost on top of them.

Only then did Carl realize.

The loud keening wasn't a police siren.

It was Anita.

Anita lost so much skin that the hospital needed to grow new skin to replace what Carl and Hank had stolen.

The police arrested Carl on the scene. They caught Hank two days later with Anita's shoe wedged under his car.

No money was recovered.

There never was any money.

Anita had been walking to the bus stop to visit her parents for the weekend. Her bag contained clothes, not cash. She'd been just a dozen paces from the bus stop when Carl had blocked her path.

Anita's honest testimony cut both ways. Carl's actions had both hurt her and helped her. But he'd hurt her a lot more than he'd helped her. He received a reduced sentence, but the guilty verdict labeled Carl a homicidal sadist who enjoyed torturing teenage girls by dragging them behind his car.

That's what the media portrayed.

That’s what the newspaper clipping in Carl’s bottle claimed.

And now Carl had found another bottle.

With a final well-aimed stab, the bottle came free.

Carl wiped off the clinging ice and turned around. As expected, everyone stood watching. It seemed he'd spent most of his life being watched.

Why should it change now?

No one spoke. They all just waited as Carl uncorked the bottle and withdrew the paper.

He scanned the top few lines.

'It’s an email,' he said. 'To Glen.'

'What does it say?' asked Victoria.

Carl folded the paper in half, and then in half again. 'I don't care. If Glen wanted me to know he would have told me himself.’

'Read it out,' demanded Chrissie.

Carl flicked the folded paper at Chrissie. It whizzed through the space between them and hit her shoulder. She snatched for it, but missed.

'Asshole,' Chrissie said as she knelt and unfolded it.

Megan looked at Alex.

Alex dismissed the paper with a wave. 'I know everything I need to know about Glen. I won't let them mess with my head.'

'But what if it's important?' asked Megan.

For the first time, Carl saw Alex lose his temper at Megan. Alex pointed around to their burial mound. 'Glen is dead. He was our friend. He saved our lives. They murdered him. How important can it be compared to that? Those bottles are just tormenting us. You're supposed to be the smart one, Megan. Don't fall for their tricks.'

'It's an email from Glen's sister,' announced Chrissie. 'She says Glen murdered their father.’

Everyone went quiet.

Chrissie said, ‘He murdered their father, sold their family home and then stole all the money. She says she hates him and wishes he was dead.'

'She got her wish,' said Alex bitterly.

Megan shook her head. 'That can't be true.'

'Why not?' asked Chrissie. 'We hardly knew Glen.'

'Of course we knew him,' said Carl.

'Did you even know he had a sister before he died?' asked Chrissie.

Carl and Megan shook their heads.

'A person capable of killing his own father can do anything,’ said Victoria. ‘We're lucky he's dead.'

Carl grabbed Alex's shoulder, but Alex didn't react.

'Why would Glen do that?' asked Megan.

'Why would his sister lie?' reasoned Chrissie. 'Carl’s newspaper clipping was real. I bet this email is real too.’

Carl walked away, wishing he'd never found the bottle. Alex followed.

A safe distance from the others, Alex said, 'I wasn't expecting that. He practically admitted it to me though.'

Carl nodded slightly. 'Glen was right. We're all being punished.'

'To death?' asked Alex. 'We've been sentenced to death? All of us?'

Carl looked into the ice. 'Only the ice knows, and it's not speaking any language I can understand.'

Chapter Eighteen

 

Carl had never needed a shower more in his life.

He itched everywhere.

His skin wanted to shed from his body. That's what it felt like anyway. Like he'd wake up in the morning to find a cast-off shell of himself.

His palms itched the most. Working helped. He worked with whichever hand itched the most.

He swapped hands again now.

It’s about the size of a cigar box,
he thought, studying the object in the ice.

No one had spoken much since Glen's secret emerged. The email from Glen's sister shocked everyone. Carl refused to dwell on it. The Glen he chose to remember wouldn't be tainted by the sick minds who invented this place.

Alex came to collect Carl's ice. Neither Chrissie nor Victoria came near Carl. Even Meagan seemed wary.

Alex offered Carl the water bottle.

Carl covered his exposed nerve with Glen's chewing gum. He tilted his head sideways to drink.

Alex knelt to collect the chips. 'How's your mouth?'

'Worse,' replied Carl. ‘I shouldn’t have used my teeth. It was a stupid idea.’

And it wasn’t the first time.

Carl had unbolted garden shears to make a knife when he was a kid.

To kids back then, knives were tools, not weapons. Tools for transforming sticks into spears. For carving initials into trees. For poking strange things found under logs. Not for turning live humans into dead humans.

All Carl’s friends had pocket knives.

In desperation, Carl raided his father's toolshed.

He had every intention of fixing his mother's shears, but he'd overlooked his father's ability to smell mischief from a hundred paces.

As nine-year-old Carl admired his handiwork, his father pounced.

'Those are you mother's.'

Carl spun, getting the biggest fright of his life.

'I-can-put-them-back-together,' he rushed out.

In the gloomy toolshed, his father's face was unreadable.

'Let me see,' his father said.

'I didn't break them,' said Carl, handing over the two little daggers. 'I just took out this bolt, see? I can put them right back together.'

Carl's father gripped one like a knife. He tested its weight in his hand. He raised an eyebrow.

'You're only half finished,' his father said. 'Get a rag and clean these. Properly. Oil them so your mother finds them better than how she left them. After that, get your coat and come fetch me.'

Carl panicked. His punishment never involved leaving their home before.

Normally his mother would intervene, but she’d taken Joshua to buy his first school uniform.

'Where are we going?' Carl asked.

'To buy you a pocket knife,' replied his father from the door. 'I’m not counting the lawnmower blades every time I want to cut the grass.'

Carl got his knife. Knives back then were different. Carl's blade was designed for safety, not stabbing. The handle was designed for comfort, not concealment.

Carl's boyhood knife was a tool.

The knife clipped to Alex's pocket was a lethal weapon.

A weapon designed for silently slitting throats behind enemy lines. It didn't seem the kind of knife that any young person, especially someone as bright as Alex, needed to possess.

Why does Alex carry a weapon like that?

Curious, Carl asked 'Did your dad give you that knife?'

Alex glanced up from his work. 'No. It's just Mom and me.'

'Where's your dad?'

Alex shrugged. ‘Mom had me when she was sixteen. All my cousins are still little kids.'

‘So your Mom gave you the knife?’

'She doesn't know I have it. I bought it.'

'Because of your leg?'

Alex stood up. 'Why do you think that?'

'The knife looks new,' replied Carl. ‘Maybe after someone or something hurt your leg, you went and bought that knife.'

'Makes sense,' admitted Alex.

Carl said, 'I saw those same scars on your shoulder and back too. That's not from a shark attack. What the hell did that to you?'

Alex stood up. He bent and straightened his mutilated leg as though talking about it made it hurt more.

'My own stupidity,' he replied. 'But I'll never make that mistake again. Next time I'll be the one doing the damage.'

Carl nodded.

He'd been wrong about Alex. He'd been wrong about the knife. That knife was exactly the tool Alex needed. And Carl couldn't help but wonder who would learn that lesson the hard way.

 

 

#

 

 

Chrissie
hacked at the ice like a drowning woman trapped under a frozen lake.

Crystal shards erupted like mini-explosions.

'Chrissie,' Carl said.

She seemed in a trance.

Carl raised his voice. 'Chrissie.'

Chrissie stopped and seemed disoriented.

After a moment she acknowledged him. 'What?'

'I'm sorry for kicking you. I didn't mean to hurt you.'

'Yes, you did.'

'I didn't,' repeated Carl. ‘And I’m sorry about your kid too. I understand why you need to get out so badly.’

‘You understand?’ Chrissie studied him. ‘Do you have children, Carl?’

Carl wanted to apologize, not start a fight.

'No.'

'Any family?'

'I have a brother.'

'Older or younger?'

'Joshua is four years younger.'

'Did you leave him a message on Megan's phone?'

Carl shook his head. 'He has a family. He’s moved on. We haven't spoken in years.'

Chrissie nodded. ‘Probably for the best. Sounds like you’ve stolen enough from him.’

'I've never stolen anything from him.'

Chrissie raised an eyebrow. 'You took away his brother. You took away his children's uncle. You probably wrecked your entire family.’

Carl usually avoided thinking about Joshua. Now he knew why.

Chrissie returned to work. ‘It’s no wonder he hates you.’

Carl stood thinking for a moment. Chrissie was right. But she’d also done him a favor.

He found Megan.

'I'd like to record my message. I know what I want to say now.’

She handed him her phone. 'Push here to start recording. Look in here. Just two minutes, okay?'

Carl nodded. He took the umbrella for privacy. He carried the phone to the drain and knelt down with his back to the wall.

He pressed the button as Megan instructed.

Don't think. Just talk.

'Hi Joshua. It's Carl here. Your brother. I've only got two minutes. This could be the last time we talk. I'm in a bad place. I've found myself trapped with a group of people. This is day three. We started with seven people. We're down to five. But that's not why I'm recording this.

‘I want you to know that when we were kids, when we were proper brothers, well, they were the best times of my life. I'm sorry I wrecked that. You don't know this, but I've read everything on your website. I've seen all the photos. I'm proud of you. Mom and Dad would be proud. You’ve turned into a good father.

‘Anyway, I've got to stop now, but I'm thinking about you and your family. If I get out of here, if it's all right, I'm going to get in contact. If I don't get out, well, then I hope you get to hear this message.'

Carl fumbled with the phone to stop it recording.

As he stood up, he felt lighter.

I should have done that sooner. Much, much sooner.

 

 

#

 

 

The box came free in Carl's hands.

It wasn’t a cigar box.

Everyone tensed up.

'Don't let it open,' warned Victoria.

No shit.

'It has leather hinges,' said Carl. 'They're badly deteriorated. It’s barely holding together.'

'Look, a string clasp,' said Alex. 'Oops — shit. Sorry.'

The string fell apart as Alex touched it.

'Clean the lid, Alex.’

Alex used his fingers.

'Where's your hoodie?'

'Didn't need it,' answered Alex.

No one mentioned the rising temperature.

'It's beautiful,' said Victoria.

She meant the box. Its surface resembled swirling honey. Amber patterns shifted before Carl's eyes.

'Is it safe?' asked Chrissie. 'Can we open it?'

'Don't rush them,' said Alex.

'I can't tell,' admitted Megan. 'Parts of it are crumbling apart and other parts look fine. I'm not sure what to look for.'

'Shake it,' suggested Chrissie.

'Don’t shake it!' everyone chorused together.

'Just shut up, Chrissie,' Alex said. 'Your stupid ideas could kill us all.'

Chrissie ignored him. Her eyes were glued to the box. Carl imagined her stomach yelling orders to her brain.

She thinks it's food. Maybe it is. Or maybe it will spit fire or spew poisonous gas or eject a hail of razor blades.

Victoria reached for the box. 'My mother had a brooch that exact color. Can I hold it?'

Carl carefully passed her the box. 'Don't drop it.'

Victoria nodded and inspected the surface.

'Tortoise shell,' she said. 'I'm sure of it. My father brought my mother a tortoise shell brooch back from Japan. From the war. Hers was already an antique. This box is much older.'

'How old?' asked Megan. 'Two thousand years?'

'Is that where our timeline is?' asked Alex. 'Two thousand years ago?'

Megan nodded. ‘If Victoria’s right about the abacus.’