Your Turn to Suffer Page 2
It was a ridiculous thought, but she walked faster, and although she felt an itch between her shoulder blades, as if someone was watching her, she didn’t turn around to look, too afraid of what she might see.
* * *
Neal Goodman was tired.
He’d started working at seven this morning, and – with the exception of the half hour he’d taken for lunch – he’d worked straight through until five. To someone looking in from the outside, the work of a dentist hardly seemed strenuous, and it wasn’t as if he spent his days digging ditches or anything. But bending over to peer into patients’ mouths and holding your arms up while working on their teeth hour after hour took a physical toll. His lower back ached, and the base of his neck was so sore that it hurt to turn his head in either direction. The joints in his hands throbbed thanks to his arthritis, and it was all he could do to maintain his grip on the steering wheel of his Volvo. When he got home, he’d have to do his best to hide his discomfort from Rosie. If his wife saw how badly he was hurting, she’d start nagging him about retiring again. He would turn seventy this January, and while he liked working – even if it was getting harder on his body as time passed – Rosie was beginning to wear him down.
You’ve been a dentist for almost forty years. You’ve had your own practice – a very successful one – for thirty of those years. You’ve earned a rest, and you should take it before you’re too old to enjoy it.
It was this last part of her argument that was the most effective. Aside from some aches and pains, he was in good health for a man of sixty-nine. But how long would his health hold up? How much time did he have left before his life ended? He wasn’t by nature a morbid man, but he was a realist. With luck, he’d live another decade, but more than that? Maybe not. And even if he did live into his eighties, would he still be strong and healthy enough both physically and mentally to keep enjoying his life, or would he end up parked in some assisted-living facility, marking time until his old body finally had the good sense to give up the ghost? The latter outcome seemed more likely.
Maybe he should make an appointment to talk with his financial advisor to see if it was feasible for him to retire at the end of the fiscal year. If nothing else, it would make Rosie happy and keep her off his back, at least for a little while.
That decided, he started thinking about what he might do with his newfound leisure time. Go on a cruise, maybe. Rosie had always wanted to take a cruise to Alaska. He had no idea why the notion appealed to her so. She hated winter. Maybe he could talk her into going someplace warmer, like the Caribbean. He’d seen commercials for Caribbean cruises on TV, and they’d always looked—
His train of thought broke as he realized he was approaching FoodSaver. He remembered that Rosie had asked him to stop there on his way home and pick up…something. He hadn’t written it down because it was such a normal thing to pick up – like milk or bread – that he figured he wouldn’t forget it. But of course he had. He could stop anyway, go inside, and hope that being in the store would jog his memory. Or he could pass FoodSaver by, continue on home, and when Rosie asked if he’d gotten what she’d asked for, he could say he’d been too tired to stop. She might feel sorry for him then and let him off the hook. Calling her and asking her to remind him what he was supposed to get wasn’t an option. She worried about him enough as it was. He didn’t want her to think he was starting to show signs of dementia. Passing by FoodSaver because he was too tired to stop was one thing. But forgetting the single ordinary item she’d asked him to pick up? She’d take that as an early symptom of Alzheimer’s. Best just to go on home.
He’d eased up on the gas while debating with himself, but now that he’d made his decision, he increased pressure on the accelerator and his car began to pick up speed. He saw something out of the corner of his eye then, and he reflexively turned to see what it was.
A woman, wearing jeans and a pale-blue sweatshirt, stood at the entrance to FoodSaver’s parking lot. At first, he thought she was waiting on someone to pick her up – a bus or an Uber – but then, for reasons he wasn’t quite clear on, he understood that she’d been waiting for him. He locked eyes with her, and for an instant, it was as if time came to a screeching halt. The woman was at least a dozen yards from him, but he saw her as if in close-up, every detail clear and vivid – especially her oddly shaped pupils. Her face was impassive, but there was something about her that spoke of grim purpose. And then, as quickly as time had slowed, it returned to normal speed.
He took his gaze off her, looked forward, and was startled to see a man standing on the road directly in his path. No, not a man. A shadowy thing shaped like a man. It had a head, torso, arms, and legs but otherwise was completely featureless: a silhouette come to life. It was tall, limbs long and lean, and it made him think of the way a person’s reflection could be stretched in the warped glass of a funhouse mirror. Neal didn’t have time to brake or swerve. All he could do was tighten his grip on the steering wheel and grit his teeth. He wanted to close his eyes – wanted to do this very much – but they remained open as he struck the dark figure.
Except he didn’t.
There was no sudden jolt, no horrible meaty thump of his Volvo hitting whatever it was. He saw a flash of darkness rushing toward him, felt a blast of cold course over and through his body, and then he was past the shadow thing. He looked at his rearview mirror and saw the creature – whatever it was – standing on the street behind him, seemingly unharmed.
He passed through me, Neal thought. Or I passed through him.
The cold he’d felt…. That had been the instant his body had come into contact with the shadow’s substance. Somehow the thing was insubstantial enough to pass through glass and metal but still solid enough to affect him as it moved through him. He wondered how—
Pain slammed into his chest with sledgehammer force. His left arm stiffened and went numb, and his left hand slipped off the steering wheel. He couldn’t breathe, and his vision narrowed to tiny pinpoints of light surrounded by darkness. Without realizing he was doing so, he pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor, and his right hand – which had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel – turned hard to the left. His Volvo swerved into oncoming traffic, and the driver of a white pickup gave an angry blast of the vehicle’s horn as Neal cut in front of it. Neal missed colliding with the pickup by less than a foot, and his Volvo bounced over the curb, went over the sidewalk, and roared into FoodSaver’s parking lot, continuing to pick up speed as it went.
Neal was in agony, teeth gritted, lower lip caught between them, flesh bitten, blood pouring out of his mouth. But a part of him was detached from the pain, was merely observing what was happening, not scared so much as confused. He’d had a checkup less than a month ago, and the doctor had said he was in good shape for a man of his age, and she’d said his heart sounded strong and healthy. But if what the doctor had told him was true, how could this be happening? It took more than a few weeks to develop heart disease, didn’t it?
He saw another woman, this one wearing a blue uniform top and carrying a small bag of groceries. He was heading straight for her, and she turned to look at him, her expression one of terrified disbelief.
Toilet paper, he thought. I’m supposed to get toilet paper.
* * *
Lori was two-thirds of the way to her car when the sounds of a blaring car horn and screeching tires caught her attention. She looked toward the street, expecting to see an accident take place, most likely involving someone who was about to discover why it wasn’t advisable to ride another driver’s ass during rush hour. But instead of witnessing one vehicle rear- end another, she saw a Volvo swerve into FoodSaver’s parking lot and come barreling toward her, engine racing.
It’s not going to stop, she thought. This realization was devoid of emotion at first, as if what was happening was no more remarkable than her noting it might rain soon. But this emotional numbness l
asted only for a second before panic exploded inside her. Her body wanted to freeze, to remain motionless in the hope that the car would miss her, like a small animal in the presence of a larger, hungry predator. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but with an effort of will, she made her body move. She was closest to the row of cars on her right, and while their shelter tempted her, if the Volvo slammed into the vehicles, she might be caught between two of them and squashed like an oversized bug. Instead, she ran toward the vehicles on her left. They were farther away, but the Volvo was angled to her right, and as fast as the vehicle was going, the driver would, most likely, end up striking one or more of the cars in that direction. So left it was. She ran all out, adrenaline flooding her system and providing her with strength and speed.
She caught a glimpse of the driver as she ran in front of his car – ashen face, wide, staring eyes – and then the Volvo flashed past her, veered toward a parked minivan and slammed into it head-on. She continued running, not looking back to check what was happening, wanting only to get as far away from danger as fast as she could. She heard a tremendous crash of metal striking metal, the impact so loud and violent that the vibrations in the air made her teeth rattle. The Volvo’s engine cut out then, and aside from the soft ticking sounds coming from beneath its crumpled hood, there was silence.
Believing that the worst of the danger had passed, Lori stopped running and, more than a little winded, turned to see what had happened. The Volvo had plowed into the minivan so hard that it appeared as if the two vehicles had fused into a single mass of twisted metal. The air was thick with the scent of engine exhaust and burning oil, as well as the tang of spilled gasoline from the Volvo’s ruptured tank. She knew she should stay back, should call nine-one-one and report the accident, but she found herself hurrying toward the damaged vehicles in case someone was hurt – which seemed more than likely – and needed assistance.
When she reached the Volvo, she saw that the driver had been wearing his seat belt and remained buckled into place. The vehicle’s airbags had activated, but they were already mostly deflated, their work done. The impact had driven the dashboard inward, and the steering wheel now pressed tight against the driver’s chest. Even with the protection of the airbag, it looked as if he’d been badly injured. Besides being pinned back against the seat by the steering wheel, his head had smashed into the driver’s-side window. The impact had broken the glass, and most of it had fallen to the ground, giving her an unobstructed view of the large bleeding gash over the man’s left temple. He was bleeding from his mouth, too. She didn’t know if that was due to internal injuries he’d sustained or if he’d bitten his tongue during the collision. But as bad as those injuries looked, she could tell by his pallor and the way he was struggling for breath that he was probably having a heart attack. She didn’t know if the attack had caused him to veer wildly into the parking lot or if the attack had been brought on by the accident, but either way, he was in serious trouble.
“Hold on,” she said. “I’ll call for help.”
As she pulled her phone from her purse, she gave the van a quick glance and was relieved to see it appeared unoccupied. She quickly called nine-one-one, but as it began ringing on the other end, the man’s head flopped to the side and he looked up at her.
“Her…eyes…” he whispered, “like a…goat’s.” This was followed by a hissing exhalation of air, and although his own eyes remained open, Lori no longer saw any sign of life in them.
A woman’s voice spoke in her ear.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Lori tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
Her…eyes…like a…goat’s.
She felt a sick crawling sensation in the pit of her stomach. She continued holding the phone to her ear, and she heard the dispatcher repeat herself, more loudly this time.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Lori still couldn’t answer. She had the sensation she was being watched, and she looked around. Cars on the street were passing by slowly as their drivers tried to get a good look at the accident and satisfy their morbid curiosity. A few drivers had pulled to the side of the road, and a couple were getting out of their cars, probably intending to offer what help they could. She didn’t pay attention to any of the witnesses or looky-loos. Her attention was focused on the goat-eyed woman who stood on the sidewalk next to the street, staring at her. The woman’s mouth moved, and although she was too far away for Lori to make out her words, she knew what she said.
Confess and atone – or suffer.
* * *
As the prime witness to the accident, Lori had to stay at FoodSaver and give a statement to the police officers who arrived to investigate. She told them everything that had happened – except for seeing the shadowy figure and the goat-eyed woman. She told herself the woman had nothing to do with the accident, and as for the shadow thing…it had only been a product of her imagination. Besides, she feared the officers would think she was crazy if she told them about the encounters.
When the officers were finished taking her statement, they asked her to remain at the scene in case they had more questions. Lori said she would – she was too shaken up to drive yet anyway – and she sat on the sidewalk outside the store, back against a brick wall, knees hugged to her chest, purse on the ground next to her. She felt a headache coming on, and she dry swallowed a Fiorinal in hopes of forestalling it. She watched as a pair of paramedics removed the old man from his Volvo, laid him on the ground, and began CPR. A layperson might’ve wondered why they bothered, but Lori knew that as long as someone wasn’t obviously beyond saving – like if they were decapitated – paramedics would do everything they could to revive that person for as long as they could, just on the chance their efforts might save his or her life. Lori feared the old man was beyond medical help, though.
Before he’d died, the old man had spoken about goat eyes. Lori was certain he’d been speaking of the same woman who’d confronted her inside the grocery, but there was no sign of her now. A small crowd had gathered to watch the police and paramedics do their work, but the goat-eyed woman wasn’t among them. That was a huge relief. Lori didn’t think she’d be able to stand it if the woman approached her now to once more deliver her incomprehensible message.
A fire truck had pulled into the parking lot along with a pair of police cruisers and the paramedic van. She assumed the firefighters had come to hose down the area around the Volvo to dilute and disperse the gasoline that had leaked from the damaged vehicle, but since the paramedics were still trying to revive the man at the scene, all they could do for now was stand around looking bored. The emergency lights of the first responders’ vehicles were all activated, and as dusk edged its way toward night, their colors seemed to become brighter and more garish. As she stared at the lights, doing her best not to think of anything in particular, she saw a van turn into FoodSaver’s lot. It had a small satellite dish attached to the roof, and Action News was painted on the side. The driver pulled up close to the police cruisers and parked. Three people got out – a pair of men, and a woman wearing a skirt and a blazer. Lori didn’t watch the news, whether national or local. She found it too depressing. She didn’t recognize the woman, but she knew she was a reporter, and that meant she’d want to interview any witnesses to the accident. Especially the woman the Volvo had almost hit. It would only take a few moments for the news crew to get ready to start recording, and once they found out who Lori was from the police, they’d hurry over to get her firsthand account of the accident. No fucking way was she going to stick around for that.
She picked up her purse, stood, and went inside FoodSaver. Forcing herself to walk at a normal pace in order not to draw any attention, she made her way to the back of the store. There was no exit for customers here, but there was a pair of swinging doors with Employees Only written on them. She pushed through the doors without hesitation and found h
erself in FoodSaver’s storage area. She saw stacks of empty cardboard boxes that hadn’t been broken down yet, as well as wooden pallets containing boxes of non-perishable items. The boxes were labeled – paper towels, breakfast cereal, potato chips – but there was no one present to open them and remove their contents. She figured that whoever had been working back here had gone out front to watch the action after the accident had happened. This meant there was no one to see her, let alone stop her, as she walked toward the receiving dock. The dock’s large door was shut, but there was a regular-sized door next to it, and this was the one she went to. She found it unlocked and she opened it, half expecting an alarm to sound, but she didn’t hear anything. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. There were several dumpsters back here, some for trash, some for recycling cardboard. The trash stank of rotten meat and sour milk, and her stomach roiled at the smell. She hurried past the dumpsters toward the west side of the building. She walked around the corner and continued on, going slowly, careful to remain close to the wall. She kept going until she could peek out into the parking lot.
She saw the reporter speaking to the police, one of the men recording her with a camera while the other stood by, watching. The paramedics had strapped the old man to a backboard and lifted him onto a gurney. They wheeled him to their vehicle and got him inside. One of the medics remained in the back with the old man, while the other closed the rear doors, jogged to the front, and climbed into the driver’s seat. A second later, the vehicle’s engine roared to life, its emergency lights came on, and its siren began blaring. The vehicle started moving, slowly at first, but once the driver pulled onto the street, he hit the accelerator and sped off. Lori knew they would take the man to the nearest hospital, which was in Ash Creek, about fifteen miles away. The news cameraman had stopped filming the reporter’s discussion with the police officer and shot footage of the paramedics leaving. When they were gone, the firefighters started preparing to wash away the gasoline that had leaked from the Volvo, and the cameraman began filming them.