Deviation (18 page)

“We can't wait until later,” Frank
insisted.

“Well, then you'll have to try another house.
I'm not letting you in.”

She began to close the door, but Dianne was fast. She
jerked open the screen door before the woman knew what was happening
and forced her way in, shoving the heavy woman back and knocking her
to the floor. The woman began hollering for her son immediately.

“Donnie! DONNIIIEEE!”

Frank entered the house right behind Dianne and pulled
the door closed behind him. He brandished his gun, making sure it
was fully visible.

“Let's keep it down in here,” he
suggested. “All we wanted was to use the phone.”

They were in the living room, which was well furnished
and overly warm. The rich scent of fresh coffee filled the air.
Dianne was standing over the woman of the house and just as Frank
came nearer, Donnie arrived from the hallway, struggling to put on a
t-shirt.

“What the hell?” he asked. “What's
going on?” He was about 14, and very thin. He saw Frank's gun
and froze in his tracks.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Frank
said. “We just need to borrow some duct tape. Can you show me
where it is?”

“No!” The big woman yelled. “Don't
give it to them, Donnie! He's going to rape me!” She began to
scream and thrash around, trying to get up. Dianne bent over and
slapped her across the face, causing her to sputter and wheeze and
begin crying.

“Shut up,” Dianne ordered. “Just
shut the hell up.”

She was unable to
do it. “Please! Don't let him rape me!
Please!
”

“No one's going to do any raping,” Frank
promised. He looked at Donnie. “Just get the duct tape, son.”

Donnie stared back defiantly. “What if I don't?”

Frank pointed the gun at his face. “God will not
be happy with you.”

His eyes grew wide as he stared into the barrel. “What
the fuck? Who the hell are you people?”

Frank stepped toward him. “Get the tape, you
little pissant.”

Donnie, looking terrified, dashed in through the
kitchen doorway.

“Call the police, Donnie!” the fat woman
yelled after him.

Dianne slapped her again. “Shut up!”

“Keep an eye on her,” Frank instructed. He
stepped through the kitchen doorway to check on Donnie, who,
surprisingly, was hunched over and digging through a cabinet beneath
the oven. “What are you doing?”

He stood up quickly, a large roll of gray duct tape in
one hand. “You told me to!”

Frank nodded, pleased. “That's right. Good
work, Donnie.”

“Don't call me that. My name is Don.”

“Bring the tape to Dianne, Don. We need to get a
few things straightened out around here.”

“Are you going to kill us?”

“No. If I was going to kill you, you'd already
be dead.”

Donnie thought
about this. “Okay. But what
are
you going to do?”

“No more questions, Don. Just do as you're told
and you and your mother will be fine.”

Don didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do.
He stared at Frank, attempting to look menacing. It didn't work.
Finally he stepped past him and brought the tape into the living room
where Dianne was waiting.

* * *

“What about the bedroom?” Dianne asked.

Frank shook his head. “We'll probably want to
use it.” He patted his pockets, searching for the cocaine.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I need to go back to the car.”

“But...”

“I know. I don't mean right this second.”

“What about the kid's room? We won't need that.”

“The kid's room will be fine. Let's move them
one at a time.”

Donnie and his mother were bound at the wrists and
ankles with tape, more of it wrapped around their mouths to keep them
quiet. Frank and Dianne took hold of Donnie first and dragged him
down the short hallway toward his bedroom. He struggled somewhat,
but it was nothing more than a mild protest.

When they got him into his room, Frank leaned his back
against the bed and used more tape to secure him to the frame. “Just
relax for awhile, Don. I'm giving you permission to take the day off
school.”

Don mumbled something incoherent behind his gag.

They returned to the living room and took hold of the
woman, who was seething with hatred. She tried much harder than
Donnie to fight them off. They dragged her roughly down the hallway
and placed her beside her son, securing her there in much the same
way.

“I don't like this bitch one bit,” Dianne
complained.

“I don't think she likes us, either.”

Dianne stared hard into the woman's eyes. “I'm
glad I picked this house. Fucking cunt. You could have at least let
us use the phone.”

The woman tried to respond, but it was impossible to
make out what she said.

Dianne bent over her. “Shut up. I hope you piss
yourself.”

“I'm sure she will at some point,” Frank
said.

“I hope so.” She looked at him. “Let's
get out of here. I need a drink.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

They left the room, closing the door behind them.

* * *

“You know, it's funny,” Dianne said. She
was sitting on the big white couch in the living room, her feet
propped up on the coffee table. She was drinking from her bottle of
Brazilian rum, which Frank had retrieved from the car along with
their bags.

“What's that?” Frank responded. He was
lounging beside her and sipping from a bottle of Wild Turkey. The
sun was coming up and flooding the room with light. It was a
pleasant home, and a peaceful moment, marred only by the realization
that the owner would be home from work shortly and require their full
attention.

“These people...” She motioned toward the
bedroom. “The Poindexters, or whatever the hell their name is.
They worked really hard for this house, I'm sure. And everything in
it. And then we just come along and decide to take it over. On a
whim. And there's really nothing they can do about it.”

“There is, but they didn't seem to try
particularly hard.”

“No. Because it was so shocking to them. The
reality of it didn't sink in fast enough to do them any good.”

“We've still got to contend with Mr. Poindexter.
Let's not underestimate him.”

“Okay. That's true. But I'm not worried. One
look at your gun and he'll probably turn to jelly.”

“Most people would.”

“True. And that's fine. I mean, somebody has to
be the victim. I'm tired of it always being me.” She took
another big swallow of rum.

“Are you feeling guilty?”

She looked at him. She was slightly dismayed to
realize the question irritated her. “I don't know. I'm not
sure.”

“If it's any consolation, I think your days of
being a victim are over.”

“I hope you're right.”

Frank took a sip of bourbon, smiling at her. “I'm
feeling quite proud of you, Dianne. You've come a long way in a very
short time.”

The words meant a lot to her. “Thank you,
Frank.” She studied him for a moment. “Do you have one
of those joints handy? I feel like getting really fucked up.”

Frank produced one as if by magic. “Of course.”

It
was almost 9am when a blue Chevy Malibu pulled up in front of the
house and a tall, heavy, bearded man climbed out carrying a plastic
lunch cooler. Frank and Dianne watched him as he turned up the
walkway and made his way toward the house.

“God,
look at him,” Dianne remarked. “He looks so
dumb!
”

“Let's hope that he is. It will make things much easier.”

“He's actually smiling. He looks retarded.” She took
another pull from her bottle. She was drunk, and stoned, and felt
very good. She felt mischievous. She was looking forward to the
coming confrontation a bit more than she probably should be.

“Why don't you hide behind the door?” Frank suggested.
“When he comes in, we'll flabbergast him.”

Dianne laughed. She thought it was a fine idea. She set her bottle
down on the coffee table and got to her feet. She staggered
slightly, reaching out to grab the arm of the couch for balance.
“You do the talking. If he gets out of hand, I'll... I don't
know... I'll do something.”

“We'll be fine.” Frank set his own bottle on the table
beside Dianne's and stood up. As she took her place behind the door,
he straightened his collar and stood formally in the center of the
room with his hands clasped in front of him.

The door was unlocked. The man pushed it open and stepped halfway
in before realizing that there was a stranger standing in his living
room. He froze for a second, his mind racing with questions.
“What... who are you?”

“Please, come in,” Frank said.

The man didn't move. He was staring at Frank's outfit with obvious
alarm. “Are you a priest?”

“Yes.”

He looked around the room nervously. “What happened? Is Kim
okay?”

“She's fine. She's in the bedroom.”

“The bed...” Now the man appeared skeptical. He
stepped further into the room, but not much. He was still puzzling
things over. He stood very near the door, Dianne directly behind
him. “What's going on? Why are you here?”

“It's simple, really,” Frank explained. “We
needed a place to stay for a few days. We chose this house at
random.”

“We?”

“My associate and I.”

“Hi,” Dianne said from behind him. The man yelped like
a child and dropped his lunch cooler to the floor. He spun around
and regarded her fearfully.

“Christ Almighty! Who are you people? Where's Kim?”

“I told you,” Frank said. “She's in the bedroom.”

The man made a move to step past him, but Frank blocked his path by
moving between the coffee table and the TV. “Just a minute.
She's not taking visitors right now.”

“Don't tell me what she's taking!” the man snarled. He
pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began pressing buttons.

Frank knocked it out of his hand. It sailed across the room and
lost itself in the curtains, then slid down behind the couch. “You'd
be wise to do what you're told.”

“This is my house! Don't tell me what to do!” He
looked ready to take a punch at Frank. Frank remedied the situation
by pulling the gun from his pocket. The man's dissent withered
visibly at the sight of it. “Son of a bitch,” he whined.
“What the hell do you
want?
”

“I already told you. We just need a place to stay for a few
days.”

“So you're just... taking over my house?”

“Something like that. It will give you something exciting to
talk about when you go back to work next week.”

“I've got to go back to work
tonight.
”

“Actually, you don't.”

“I
have
to! No one else can run that line!”

“Sit on the floor,” Frank ordered.

“Fuck you!”

Frank leveled the gun at his chest. “Sit!”

“No! Get out of my house!” He was trembling and trying
not to show it.

Dianne had found a metal sculpture of some sort of dragon on the
fireplace. She lifted it up and tested its weight in her hand. It
was very solid. She stepped up behind the man of the house and
hefted it.

“Last chance,” Frank warned. “Sit on the floor.”

The man stared at the gun, clearly panic-stricken. But he was too
outraged to comply. “That's probably not even a real gun. If
you were going to shoot me, you would have --”

Dianne struck him on the back of the head with the statue. There
was a dull, meaty thud and another surprised yelp escaped the man's
mouth. He fell to his knees, one hand rising to the back of his
head.

“I suggest you do what he tells you,” Dianne said. “The
Father has a very short temper.”

The man gazed up at her, blinking back tears. “What the...
Jesus Christ! This is insane!”

“Indeed it is,” Frank agreed. “But nevertheless,
you'd be wise to heed her advice.”

“Her advice was to listen to
you!
”

“Precisely.”

Dianne set the statue down on a shelf near the TV and picked up the
roll of duct tape from the coffee table. “Hands behind your
back,” she ordered.

“Fucking cunt!”

“Do it,” Frank instructed. He pointed the gun at the
man's head.

“You don't have the guts.”

“He had the guts last night,” Dianne said. “And
the night before that. Don't you watch the news? I wouldn't fuck
with him if I were you.”

As the man processed this new information, he weighed his options,
which were extremely limited. Something inside him became resigned
and he hung his head. Slowly, he reached both hands behind his back.
“Fucking douche bags. I'll get you for this.”