What happened to lori, p.18
What Happened to Lori, page 18
part #9 of Konrath Dark Series
Then Presley would go into town. Mondays was BlueSpa for a hot stone massage, or maybe deep tissue if she was especially sore. Tuesdays was filling the car up with gas—which was a waste of time and energy, because she could have gotten gas the previous day, after going to the spa. Wednesdays, grocery shopping. Thursdays, hair and nails and Coreen’s. Friday, yoga at the park district. Saturday, volunteering at the shelter, helping to prepare dinner for Wichita’s homeless. Sunday, various errands.
When she returned from Wichita, Presley endured a quiet hour of blindly feeling through her backpack for the locations of various items, memorizing their shapes and their placements by feel.
If Fabler made dinner, Presley would practice sewing wounds on the suture pad, or hooking a saline IV up to Fabler’s hand as he cooked, or attaching various splints to herself or to him. If she made dinner, Fabler would disappear again. Sometimes missing dinner entirely.
That was when Presley would walk outside, into the woods, away from Grim’s cameras, and call Brooklyn.
At night, always a DVD. Some action/sci-fi/horror film that involved aliens. But not friendly extraterrestrials, who could make your bicycle fly by lifting a glowing finger. In the movies Fabler watched, the visitors from outer space were always malevolent, trying to take over the planet or destroy humanity or impregnate earth women.
Always a high body count.
Always a lot of blood.
Happily, the movies were far enough removed from reality that they didn’t trigger any panic attacks. Presley kept her PTSD under control and hidden from Fabler, and since that bad episode in his bedroom, she’d stayed even-keeled.
Presley knew she should be reassured by that thought. But instead, it left her uneasy.
She had a bad feeling that this wouldn’t end well.
GRIM ○ August 23 ○ 12:39pm
“I should fire her.”
Grim said it to the fish tank box, trying to summon the motivation to send the text and fire Presley.
Unfortunately, firing her meant he was giving up. Fully giving up. Grim may have eaten half a stick of butter with soup crackers last night because he had run out of Ramen and had no other food. And he may have been bathing in the sink because the Osmonds were still in the bathtub. And he may have spent the last few days a sick, weary mess because he hadn’t been without liquor for this many days since Lori was still alive.
And winners didn’t quit.
Winners fight until the very end. Even if they lose.
Grim put his cell phone away, went to the kitchen, and washed his face and armpits using the sink sprayer. Then he opened the sliding door and stepped onto a balcony barely large enough for one chair and a small charcoal grill, staring at a vast meadow beyond the urban sprawl, letting nature embrace him and soothe his bruised and tarnished soul.
A bird shit on his head.
Grim gave nature the finger. Then he went back inside to the sink sprayer. He used the last drops of dish soap to clean his hair, picking out bits of undigested seeds. Then he dressed in a shirt that didn’t smell too bad, and gathered up his most cherished possessions that he’d been saving his whole life.
It didn’t amount to much. After losing his job, Grim sold almost all of his gun collection, only retaining a 9mm Glock 17 with a MechTech Carbine conversion kit.
Then he headed into town, hoping he had enough gas to make it.
The army, and more recently, the battle royale mode in the Xbox One game Fortnite, taught him to constantly check his six, so Grim kept one eye on the rearview mirror—
—and kept seeing the same sedan, even after three turns.
Not entirely unusual. If the driver was going to Wichita, it made sense that they’d follow the same route. But Grim got that I’m being followed tickle on the back of his neck, and purposely made a turn that took him away from town.
The sedan didn’t make the turn.
Grim slept poorly, but he still liked the quote.
But for some weird reason, even with the sedan gone, Grim still felt like he was being followed.
He opened up his windows, to release a fly that was doing a figure eight in the passenger seat, and chalked the incident up to nothing.
Upon getting to the Pawn ‘N Shop, Grim brought in his box of lifetime valuables and approached Murray, the owner, standing behind the counter. During Grim’s cop days, he’d often worked with Murray to help track stolen merchandise. They’d known each other for years, and Murray possessed a calm, likeable demeanor.
“Go to hell Grim, you stinking butt nugget, get the hell out of my store.”
“What’s with the hostility, Murray?”
“Last time you were in here you stole a flat screen TV.”
“I didn’t steal it. The TV was hot. You bought stolen goods, and right now it’s in the evidence room waiting to be picked up by the original owner.”
The TV currently hung on Grim’s bedroom wall.
“You’re not a cop no more. I don’t have to deal with you.”
“But I brought some cool stuff.”
“Go someplace else. And take a shower, man. You smell like a bum.”
Grim made his face sad. “It’s my cancer, Murray.”
“Cancer?”
“Stage six. Eating me from the inside. I need to sell some things to afford chemo. Can you help me out?” He forced a cough. “C’mon, brother. I need this.”
Murray’s chubby face seemed conflicted. Then he nodded, three chins jiggling. “Fine. Pawning or selling?”
“I probably won’t make it much longer.” Grim added a bit of quaver to his voice. “I guess I’ll sell.”
“Let’s see what you got.”
Murray spent about two minutes going through the box, carefully inspecting every item. Then he got an adding machine. As he punched in dollar amounts, Grim tried to decide what he would do with the thousands of dollars.
“Two hundred and eleven dollars.”
“For which item?”
“For everything.”
Outrage overwhelmed Grim. He pointed into his box. “That’s a Rolex!”
“Fake.”
“Will you give me fifty for it?”
“For a counterfeit Rolex? Hell no. We don’t sell knock-offs. Read the sign.”
Murray jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the aforementioned sign.
WE DON’T SELL KNOCK-OFFS
“How about the Xbox? It’s practically new.”
“It’s three years old. A newer model has been released since then, with a faster processor and more memory. Plus, you have a second party controller. And it’s missing the rubber on the right analog stick. Fifty bucks, assuming it works. I have to test it first.”
“How about the taser? It’s an X26P. Never been used. Fully charged, with the extended battery pack and extra dart cartridge. Best of the best. Worth a few thou.”
“That’s police issued, Grim.”
“So?”
“So, did they give it to you as a going away present when they kicked you off the force? Or did you take it?”
Grim didn’t answer.
“You seriously want me to buy merchandise stolen from the cops?”
“I’d really appreciate it.”
“How hard will it be to trace the serial number, do you think?”
“What if the serial number accidentally got scratched off?”
“You know when it fires it shoots confetti with the serial number on it, specifically so it can be traced?”
“Fine. Your loss. How about the class ring?”
“Ninety bucks.”
“It’s gold, man!”
“Ten karat. Only about eight grams.”
“I paid like three hundred for it, twenty-five years ago.”
“That’s because those ring companies rip you off.”
“Hasn’t gold gone up?”
“Of course. But what you got there is rinky-dink. Compare it to this.” Murray ducked behind the counter and came up with a large coin in a plastic case. “One full ounce of twenty-two karat tried-and-true American Gold Eagle. Twelve hundred sixty bucks all day. Guy came in a few weeks ago, bought five hundred of them off me. Paid cash. Cleaned me out. That’s worth about seven thousand of your dinky little class rings.”
“How about the gemstone?”
Murray made a face. “The market for turquoise is soft right now.”
“I don’t care. What’s it worth? The stone?”
“You didn’t catch my sarcasm there? I laid it on pretty thick.”
“How much is the stone worth, Murray?”
“About two bucks. If you had a buyer. Which isn’t me. I’ll buy the gold for scrap, you can have your cheap ass stone back.”
“What about all my other stuff? The comics?”
“Let’s see. Incredible Hulk numbers 352 through 361 in fair condition.”
“Why fair condition?”
He held up a book. “This one has the Johnson Smith order form cut out of it.”
Grim remembered being a kid and sending away for fake vomit and a whoopie cushion, to prank Lori.
“No one cares about the ads, Murray.”
He held another. “On this one, you drew bandito mustaches on the Hulk in ballpoint pen.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“A near mint comic is graded 9.6. Yours are about 1.5.”
Grim sighed. “Just tell me what they’re worth.”
“For the lot? Let’s see, the market for 1980s common comic books in fair condition is skyrocketing.”
“So how much?”
“Three dollars.”
“And the rest of the stuff? This antique Hess toy truck?”
“The 1970s don’t qualify as antique. Twenty bucks, because of the misprint.”
“That’s not a misprint.” Grim pointed to the decal. “That part there has faded.”
Murray scratched his chin. “Huh. I must have missed that.”
“How much?”
“Five bucks. The misprints are worth more.”
Murray raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? When was the last time you saw POGs for sale?”
“Been a long time. So they must be worth something.”
“Actually, some of the rare ones sell for thousands of dollars.”
“Really?”
“No. Your POGs are worthless.”
“Now you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“I heard some of them are valuable.”
“Elongated coins?”
“Yeah.”
“Where you put a penny in the machine, and it flattens it out and stamps a new design on it?”
“I’ve got twenty of them, all Disneyland.”
“Twenty?”
Grim spread them out on the counter. “Yeah. All the good ones. Goofy. Peter Pan’s little bug friend, whatshername, with the wings. Splash Mountain. Goofy with a balloon. Another Goofy with a balloon. I got that one twice because the first one came out with a crease in his face.”
“No kidding? You know what you’ve got there, Grim?”
“Tell me.”
“A waste of twenty cents.”
Grim frowned. “They cost fifty cents each to make. You put a penny and two quarters into the machine and then turn the crank to smash it.”
“Well, then, that’s an entirely different story.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. What you’ve got is a waste of ten dollars and twenty cents.”
“You know there are other pawn shops in town.”
“Good call. I’m sure my competitors will go crazy for your creased Goofy pennies, crappy comics, and stolen stun gun.”
Grim sighed, picking up the Splash Mountain penny and remembering being a kid, going to Disneyland with his parents and sister.
On impulse, he stuck the penny in his pocket. “Okay, cut the sarcasm. Tell me how much for everything.”
“For everything, and I don’t want your damn POGs or elongated cents or police taser or knock-off watch, for everything, assuming the Xbox works and your games aren’t scratched to hell, I’ll give you two hundred and eleven—wait, forgot the truck—two hundred and six dollars.”
“Can you round it up to two hundred and ten?”
“For you? No. Take it or leave it.”
Grim took it, holding his breath as Murry plugged in the Xbox.
“Looks good.”
“But your Sonic Mania disc is missing.” Murray showed Grim the empty case.
“Is it in the Xbox?”
“Nope. Gotta knock thirty off for that.”
“I just bought it. The game just came out.”
“I know. That’s why I’m paying thirty. If you find it, bring it back.”
“I know exactly where it is.”
“Well, it’s Sonic.” Murray’s mouth twitched. “He probably ran away. That little hedgehog is fast.”
“Are you enjoying this, Murray?”
“I’ll be honest, Grim. This is the most fun I’ve had all year.”
“Can you pay me for Sonic now and I’ll grab the disc and bring it in?”
“No way. I’m not paying thirty bucks for an empty case.”
“What would you pay for an empty case?”
“Let me see.” Murry punched something onto his calculator. Then he showed the number to Grim.
“That’s what I pay for empty cases. Nothing.” He handed Grim one hundred and eighty-six dollars. “Thanks for shopping at the Pawn ‘N Shop. Have a nice day.”
Grim put his stolen taser and fake Rolex in his box of POGs and pennies, and left the store.
Murray called after him. “Good luck with your chemo.”
FABLER ○ August 24 ○ 1:51pm
Presley took the Jeep into town.
Fabler waited until she’d been gone for ten minutes, then he went into the bathroom and began the uncomfortable job of unpacking his purse.
After doing his business and repacking, he crept into the hallway.
To the secret room, hidden behind the false wall.
“It’s me.”
He squatted and stared in the box, at all that was left of his wife, until the tears made it blurry.
“Not much longer, baby. Not much longer. This will be over soon. I promise. I promise on my love for you, it will all be over soon. Any day now.”
After a good cry he sealed up the room, went to his computer, punched in his password, and searched for more red-haired, blue-eyed women.
He found another one. The stats all matched. The date made sense.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
THE WATCHER ○ August 24, 2017 ○ 7:17+pm
Does history even matter anymore?>
The Watcher believes that life, specifically self-aware life, has importance.
Maybe that is a self-fulfilling thought. The very act of consciousness requires ascribing meaning to consciousness, while objective reality sees no difference between a brain and any other equivalent collection of atoms.
But this infers a trait of reality; namely, that reality has perspective and understands value.
Which means reality has consciousness.
So consciousness, as an evolution of reality, must be important.
Or else nothing is important.
If nothing is important, then the highest functioning organic brain on earth is equal, atom for atom, to a similar volume of horse dung.
That cannot be true. What is the point of anything if matter does not know itself?
The logical construct appeals to him, but the Watcher cannot be sure. While intelligence is a simple matter of applying mathematics, importance is not as tidy.
Certainly he is more important than a slug.
Certainly the level of knowledge needed to keep the Experiment alive serves some higher scientific purpose beyond the humanitarian aspects.
God exists. And God does not care.
Therefore, why should the Watcher care about the pain he causes?
“Why are you doing this?”
The Watcher looks upon Redhead Number 15. “Who are you to question me?”
“I’m hurt.”
“You hurt so that we may live.”
“But I don’t have to hurt.”
“You did not follow the rules. This is the lesson.”
“Have any of us learned the lessons you’re trying to teach?”
“Perhaps I should be stricter.”
The Watcher sees fear. Likes it.
“If you’re trying to teach, you have to make good on your promise.”
