World-Mart (9 page)

Kurt stormed in.  “Took you long enough!  I’m starving!  When’s dinner?”

“I’m going to start it as soon as I’m done putting away the groceries,” Shelley said.

“Are we going to have dinner in the dark again?” Kurt whined.

“Maybe.”  Shelley worked to remain patient
with the boy, knowing his anger and confusion.

Kurt stomped his foot.  “It’s not fair!”

“Go play in your room, Kurt,” George said.

“It’s getting dark in my room!” Kurt cried.

“Then bring your toys in here.  Dinner will be ready in a little whil
e
.
”
  He grimaced as he swallowed another shot of tequila.

Kurt gave George an angry scowl, but he didn’t move.

Shelley dug the batteries out of one of the bags.  “Kurt, look what I got for the click-light.”  She tossed one to him, and he caught it with both hands.  “Why don’t you change it out, while we still have the kitchen light on?”

Kurt left with the battery, his mood instantly diffused.

George poured himself another serving of tequila.  He noticed that Shelley left out a package of spaghetti and canned sauce.  Virginia always made spaghetti on Wednesdays.

Shelley put a pot of water on the stove to boil, and then took her school bag to the kitchen table.  She had a couple hours of homework still to do, and only a little while left before it was time to turn off the kitchen light.  She had the click-light in the bathroom if she really needed to get her work finished, but at this point, she wasn’t sure she had the energy left even to get started.  She took a look at her assignments with an overwhelmed sigh, unsure where to start.

Chapter Ten

“I CAN’T
remember a thing,” George said, his mind a blur and his thoughts confused.  He sat in a small room, wearing a Police-Corp-issued jumpsuit.  He winced at the pain that drummed in his head as he strained to search his memory.  He remembered the earlier part of the night, but not much of it.  He had sent both of the kids to bed early, intent on getting as drunk as he possibly could.  Beyond that, the details were sketchy.

To accommodate Kurt’s escalating anxiety attacks, Shelley had begun to sleep on the floor in his room.  She made up a new bedtime story for him each night, talking until he fell asleep so that he knew, despite the dark, that she was still in there with him.  George remembered listening in on Shelley’s tale for the night, caught up just as deeply as Kurt was in her attention to detail and flair with words. 

He had abandoned the tumbler after several servings, opting to drink directly from the bottle instead.  He had been drunk before, so he knew what hell might find him when morning came, but for the moment he reveled in the numb bliss each swallow promised to bring closer.

Still listening to Shelley’s story, George moved to his bedroom.  He took another swig from the bottle before setting it down on the nightstand.  He moved to Virginia’s pillow and brought it up to his face.  He breathed deeply, searching for any remains of the scent that had once been there.  He breathed deeper, but still he couldn’t find any trace of it.  She was gone.

George’s throat knotted up as he contemplated the emptiness
slowly
consum
ing
him.  He choked and coughed as he forced down another huge swig of tequila.  Then, all of a sudden, he began to have difficulty sitting upright.  He was only able to get to the side of the bed before he began to vomit.

He remembered staggering to the bathroom, leaning against the wall to keep from falling over.  He rinsed his face and drank some water, lowering to the floor as he felt the onset of more nausea.  He closed his eyes and the darkness immediately seized him.

The next
thing
he knew, he was coming to in a holding cell.

He squinted, the overhead light stinging his eyes.  He looked back and forth between the two police associates, both large men with unforgiving faces.  He rubbed his tired eyes, trying to conceal the fact that they were beginning to well up.  “Listen.  My wife died.  I got drunk and blacked out.  I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“You don’t remember anything else?” the associate on George’s left asked.

George searched the deepest regions of his mind, but last night continued to come back as a blank, black slate.  He shook his head.  “I have no idea.  Will you just tell me what I’m in here for?  And where are my kids?”

“They’re fine.  They’re being held downstairs in the Safe House.  Cooperate with us, and we’ll get you to them as soon as possible.”

The second associate pulled a digital camera from his bag and plugged it into a console at his side.  A hologram popped up from the center of the table, displaying a three-dimensional image of a living room in disarray.  George did not recognize it.

“This is a picture taken from your neighbor’s apartment across the hall.  You know William and Judith Rockwell, don’t you?” the associate asked.

“I know them,” George said, unsure what to make of the picture.

“You don’t remember pounding on their door at three a.m., and then forcing your way in when Mr. Rockwell answered?” the associate continued.

George shook his head just as a flash of recollection hit him.  In his drunken stupor, he had decided he needed a shoulder to cry on.  When William had turned him away and Judith threatened to call Police-Corp when he refused to back out of the doorway, he had become enraged with his neighbors’ seeming apathy.

George looked up at the associate with a surprised face.  “I picked a fight with William.  Oh, God . . . is he okay?”

“He’s fine, but there was substantial damage sustained throughout his apartment.  Housing is charging you eight thousand dollars for all of the wall and furnishing repairs, and we’re still waiting to see if anyone is going to press additional charges,” the associate on the right said as he went through his notes.

“Substantial damage?” George asked.

The associate on the left pushed a button on his camera and the hologram shifted to a close up of some of the damage.  A b
roken
chair sat over a shattered mirror, and there were several holes in
the
wall
s
.

George stared at the picture in disbelief.  “I did that?”

The associate unplugged the camera, and the holographic image instantly disappeared.  “As it stands, you’re being charged with disorderly conduct outside your home
, damage to corporate property, and resisting arrest
.  Would you like a defense associate from Law-Corp to defend your case?”

“No,” George said, knowing that with his luck William would be the one who ended up the case’s supervising manager.  He looked down, breathing heavily.  “I plead guilty to the charge.”

The two police associates looked at one another, and then the one on the right stood.  “Sit tight.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  The associate slipped out, leaving his partner alone with George.

George looked up, and he and the remaining associate stared one another down for a moment.  George couldn’t fight the impulse to look away, and he pretended to study the computer console on the side of the desk.  He glanced back over at the associate, finding the man still staring at him, and he quickly looked down.  To avoid looking back up, he traced the faux wood grain lines on the desk with his eyes.

“I don’t know what I’d do if my wife died,” the police associate said, his voice low and sympathetic.

George looked up, surprised.  “She was a good woman.  She didn’t deserve what happened.”

The associate nodded, his face remaining hard and cold.  “My condolences to you.”

George gave an abrupt, grateful nod.

Both men turned as the other associate entered with a small handheld computer.  The top screen contained George’s confession in twelve-point Courier.  The smaller bottom screen had a plastic pen-shaped attachment, which the associate plucked out and handed to George.

George read the statement to ensure it was correct, and then signed his name in the bottom screen.  A pixilated version of his signature came up on the screen as he signed.  He looked it over one last time, and then snapped the pen back into its receptacle and returned it to the associate.

“It shouldn’t be too long until we know whether or not we can release you,” the associate said as he saved George’s signature into a database and turned off the computer.  “You’re going to have to return to the holding cell in the meantime.”

The other associate stood as his partner handcuffed George, and the three moved together back toward the holding cells.  The long hallway was obscenely bright, bringing George’s headache to a new level of pain.  He leaned over and began to heave.

The police associates dragged him on, unfazed.  They entered an electronically secure corridor that contained five large holding cells.  The associates put George back into the drunk tank, the only cell not crowded with deviants and violent criminals.

The room had three gray walls, with a row of bars along the front in place of the fourth, and despite the circulation between it and the corridor, it reeked of vomit and urine.  One other middle-aged man was in there, lying on his side, half-awake.  He wore a Furniture-Mart associate polo shirt and khaki pants.  He had thrown up on himself while passed out, but he was not yet awake enough to acknowledge the smelly mess that lingered on his face and in his hair.

George sat down as the police associates locked the door and walked off.  He heard one of the associates call out a number, but he yawned as the man spoke and he didn’t hear it.  His number had already been called, his ticket taken; there was no need to pay attention now.  He heard a door down the corridor open and then slam back shut as the associates escorted another prisoner into the interrogation room.

The other man in George’s cell slowly came to, wiping the crusty hair from his face.  He sat up, realizing that he was not alone, and he gave George a hard scowl.

George turned away from the man.  He was in no mood for another altercation.  His head still pounded, but at least the nausea had subsided.  He slouched back in his chair and closed his eyes, hoping that he might sleep through his remaining hours of confinement.  George knew Law-Corp, and when it all came down to it, humans rarely were incarcerated anymore.  Deviants filled the majority of the prisons, amongst the occasional human murderer or rapist.  It would take no more than a couple more hours for management to process his paperwork, and then he and the kids would be free to return home.  He wasn’t sure how he was going to pay Housing for the damage he did to the Rockwells’ living room, but he would worry about that after he ensured that what remained of his family was safe at home.

He had no idea how to track the hours, as the cell had no windows, there were no visible clocks, and the associates had taken his watch.  He dozed for a short time, waking to find the other man trying to remove his shoes.  He kicked the man away, securing his shoes with the retying of both laces, keeping one eye on the man to make sure he didn’t come tearing back in some crazed, hung-over rage.  He looked up as the man decided to return to his cot, a mix of anger and guilt complicating his face.

George decided that the man was no real threat and stared him down for a moment, just to establish that he was not to be assaulted again.