Crack-Up (21 page)
Authors: Eric Christopherson
Inside an over-stuffed walk-in closet, I found—side by side and neatly folded on hangers—a man-size striped rugby shirt along with an old pair of men’s blue jeans.
Their owner’s identity I guessed at for two minutes, driven by a foolish stir of jealousy.
It was in the cupboard beneath the sink in the master bathroom that I found a nine millimeter Glock, unloaded, but with a carton of hollow points for companionship.
I took the weapon and bullets with me into the bedroom and sat down on the side of Keisha’s queen-size canopy bed to load.
Using the remote I found on the nightstand, I turned on the TV and surfed until I’d located CNN.
I was on by now.
I listened to Larry King describe the “massive manhunt” to find me, glancing up at the screen now and then as I slid ammo into place.
I glimpsed videotape of myself escorting movie stars to premieres, taking that famous bullet for the president.
I saw my own booking photo for the first time, watched myself being led toward a waiting squad car in handcuffs.
Finished loading the weapon, I placed it on the bed beside me and began to remove my boots.
I got the right one off, but the left boot was stuck, due to my swollen ankle.
I was tugging at it, gently, when—from down the hall—I heard the front door to the condo open with a grunt, then slam shut.
I switched off the TV, stood, grabbed my gun, and hobbled toward the door.
I heard footsteps padding the carpet in the hallway.
A moment later, Keisha Fallon stepped into her bedroom in a summery yellow print dress, a big department store shopping bag swaying in her hand.
I’d raised an index finger to my lips so she wouldn’t scream at the unexpected sight of me, but at first glance she saw only my strange hat, my strange attire, and maybe my lacerated finger, and shrieked.
Loud as any car alarm.
Gently, I cupped her mouth with my hand and gripped her by the waist.
“Ssh!” I said.
“It’s me.”
Then she hurt me.
Bad.
The lady has skills, let me tell you.
A flying elbow scored a direct hit in my solar plexus.
A spiked heel nearly perforated my foot.
We were both shrieking by then.
I got behind Keisha, mashing my hand over her mouth.
It was a mistake, I think, allowing the gun barrel’s cold steel to brush her cheek as I wrestled her over toward the bed, for she bit me on the palm of my hand.
I winced as I threw us both onto the bed.
I lay on top of her, my hand still muffling her screams.
When her bloating, fear-choked eyes recognized my face for the first time, her hysteria ceased, then very quickly resumed, even louder than before—her fear of me apparently greater than that of any armed, homeless burglar and potential rapist.
But in all fairness, there had been that unfortunate scene recently in the psychiatric ward’s visitor’s room.
“I won’t harm you,” I said.
“I promise, Keisha, I promise.”
Several times more I repeated my promise before she settled down.
She didn’t scream when I finally took my hand from her mouth.
I sat up.
She propped herself up on her elbows.
“You look like a madman,” she said, her eyes angry slits.
“I’m not, Keisha.”
“And you reek.
You absolutely reek.”
“That reminds me.
I’d like to shower.”
“Take that ridiculous hat off.”
I did.
I flung it straight into a bedside waste basket.
“Whatever do you think you’re doing, Argus?”
“Whatever I have to do.
Someone’s trying to destroy me, Keisha, someone very clever.
But I’m turning the tables, is what I'm doing.
I'm out to get that fucker instead.”
“I knew it!”
Keisha flopped on her back.
“I knew it!
You’re still nuts!”
“I need your help.”
She stared at me, incredulous.
“No!
N-O!
No!
Nothing doing!
Out of the question!
You’re sick, Argus!
Sick in the head!
Just listen to yourself!”
I sighed.
Sudden change of plans.
“I’m going to have to tie you up now.”
That startled her, but only for a moment, then she slowly shook her head, resigned.
“Got any string, or rope?”
“Oh, Argus.”
Rather than answer, Keisha shook her head some more.
I searched the walk-in closet.
I searched the dresser.
“If only you were into S&M,” I said, “I’d at least have a pair of handcuffs.
Why didn’t you go to work at HT today?”
“I don’t start until tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
I got an idea.
I gripped Keisha by the wrist and tugged her off the bed.
“Come with me,” I said before leading her down the hall and into the kitchen, where I grabbed a long, serrated carving knife.
Keisha’s big eyes grew even bigger.
“Argus, what do you want with that?”
“You’ll see.”
I led Keisha back to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed, every curve she had, it seemed, now aimed at me: legs crossed, shoulders back, breasts thrusting out.
“You don’t have to tie me up, Argus.
We could just shower together, like old times, remember?”
She eyed the knife again.
Eyed me.
“We could do all the old times.”
That hurt.
“You really are afraid of me, aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer, but only sniffled.
I stepped to a window, eyeing the Venetian blinds.
“Don’t worry, Keisha, I’d never harm you.”
“You harmed John Helms, though, didn’t you.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
Near the top of the window frame I severed the cord from the blinds.
“Bullshit, Argus.”
Tears greeted me when I turned back around.
“Sorry it has to be this way.
I really am.
Now lie on your back and lift your arms up to the headboard, like this.”
The cord was thin but strong.
I cut it into three strips.
Two I used to bind her wrists to wooden slats in the headboard.
“It hurts,” she said.
“It’s got to hurt a little, Keisha.”
“It hurts too much.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, assessing my slipknots.
The last strip of cord I used to bind her feet together at the ankles.
I turned the TV on for Keisha while I showered.
I rubbed off all the dried blood and lathered soap into my wounds, yelping from the sting a few times.
Where Keisha had bit me needed stitches, I thought, but I had to settle for band-aids.
Hunger, which hadn’t howled all day, suddenly began to, louder than an ACLU lawyer.
I micro-waved a can of chicken soup and slurped it up in a bowl sitting on the edge of the bed with just a towel wrapped around my waist.
I offered Keisha some, but she wasn’t hungry.
Finished, I dropped the soup bowl on the nightstand and, seizing the men’s clothing I’d noticed hanging in the closet, the blue jeans and rugby shirt, began to dress.
The clothing’s owner I estimated to be two inches taller and wider than myself.
I had to roll up the legs of the jeans and borrow Keisha’s terrycloth bathrobe belt to keep them from falling down.
The striped rugby shirt was unseasonably thick.
“Whose duds are these?” I asked.
“Those?” she said.
“Oh, he’s long gone.
Been meaning to throw those out.”
For footwear, I borrowed a pair of Keisha’s white running socks and black jogging shoes too.
She’s my height if she’s wearing two-inch heels, with fairly big feet for a woman, so her sneakers, though more than snug-fitting, felt almost exquisite in comparison to homeless Graybeard’s ancient military boots.
When I was fully dressed, Keisha said, “You going?”
I gave a nod.
“Just out to the pharmacy for now, to get me some Risperdal, my anti-psychotic medication.”
I jammed the Glock into my waistband and concealed it beneath my shirt tail.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a prescription.”
“No, Argus, no!
Don’t do it!”
I noticed a Washington Redskins cap hanging on a wall peg and snatched it.
“I don’t want to, Keisha, I hate to do it, but what choice do I have?”
“Oh, Argus.”
Her eyes, moist with pity, turned away.
I went to the kitchen for the roll of duct tape.
From the top drawer of Keisha’s bedroom dresser, I grabbed a pair of red, crotch-less panties.
I rolled them up into a ball and tried to stick them inside Keisha’s mouth, but she fought me.
“Please, Argus, not those!
What if you get shot during your stick-up—or arrested—and I’m found here with those in my mouth!”
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
To jam the gag inside, I cupped my hand beneath her chin and squeezed her cheeks on both sides, the way I’d done with farm animals as a boy when they wouldn’t take their medicine.
Her ruby lips popped open, forming an oval.
I stuffed the panties inside and secured the gag by wrapping a wide strand of duct tape around her head.
The gag upset Keisha.
She whined.
Then she tried to speak, but only mumbling came out.
“Relax,” I said.
“I won’t be long.
Maybe an hour.”
Downstairs, I found Keisha’s purse on a table near the front door and rummaged inside for her car keys, her apartment keys, and her cell phone.
Then I left, locking the door behind me.
I breathed easier as nighttime fell.
It was the same for fugitives everywhere, I supposed, switching on the headlights to Keisha Fallon’s candy apple red Ford T-Bird convertible.
I kept the stereo speakers silent as I drove through
Friendship
Heights
with the top up.
I turned onto a narrow residential street of brick colonials and two-story townhouses.
I parked curbside in front of a darkened home.
The other homes were lit up, but the sidewalks were deserted, save for a woman pushing a baby stroller.
I cracked open my door to the roar and honk of traffic from the commercial district around the corner on
Connecticut Avenue
.
I took three deep breaths, settling my nerves, then hopped out.
I slammed the door shut and limped around the corner and down the street.
With every other step, pain set upon my bad ankle, like stabs from a well-equipped Lilliputian field army.
Turning into a
Then lower still.
The store was uncrowded, quiet.
A middle-aged Hispanic woman in a
A skinny high school boy in a varsity letter jacket flipped through pages in front of the magazine rack.
I limped without haste toward the pharmacy at the back of the store.