What Doesn't Kill You (A Suspense Collection) (4 page)

14.

There was a breakthrough in Ted’s investigation on
October 21st,
eight days before Nora was predicted to strike. The
breakthrough happened by accident, around midnight, when Ted came home from a
poker game at his buddy’s place. As he crossed the semi-dark living room, he
saw Pete sitting in an armchair with the whiskey decanter in his hand. Ted
didn’t have to smell Pete’s breath to figure out that his son was drunk like a
skunk.

Ted was slightly annoyed that Pete was pouring from his
personal decanter. You do not touch Ted’s alcohol, that was the rule. Why
hadn’t the kid bought his own damn whiskey?  

“What’s the occasion?” Ted eased into the chair on the
other side of the table.

At least he wasn’t getting shitfaced at some sketchy
bar or a drug den in Pacoima, Ted thought.

“No occasion. Want some?” Pete raised the decanter and
gave Ted an inquiring look. His speech was slurred.

Ted shook his head. Under different circumstances, he
would not mind having a glass of whiskey, but right now he was too preoccupied
with trying to figure out Nora’s plan as well as processing her betrayal.
Besides, he didn’t want to cloud his judgment; he needed a clear head more than
ever before.

“Is it about some chick?” Ted asked.

This had to be about a girl. At twenty two, at least
half of your problems were pussy related (if you were a regular straight guy,
of course). As the Beatles said, you can’t buy love. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” 

After a short pause, Pete asked, “Dad, why did you ask
Mike if Mom was cheating on you?” 

Ted studied his son’s face for a few seconds, wondering
if Pete suspected anything, and then replied, “I was just having a bad day,
that’s all.”

There was no distrust or contempt in Pete’s eyes. Perhaps,
he was genuinely curious.

“Are you getting a divorce?”

Ted smiled. “No, of course not.”

Pete nodded, then leaned back and closed his eyes. When
Ted looked at him again, he seemed to have fallen asleep.

After staring at the walls in complete silence for
several minutes, Ted stood up to turn off the lights. As soon as he took his
first step towards the lamp, he froze. There was something wrong with his
exquisite Rolex Submariner Date wristwatch, which had set him back thirty
grand. It had become significantly lighter; Ted could barely feel it on his
arm. And what was even weirder, the Rolex was growing
transparent
. It
was
fading
. Ted could make out the hairs on his wrist right underneath
the watch. This was no joke: he could actually see through his timepiece.

His Rolex Submariner was turning into a fucking ghost.

The room was going through the same transformation as
the watch. The beautiful rug under Ted’s feet, the furniture, the walls, the
ceiling—they were all fading away, like a hologram on a dying battery.

It felt as if he were waking from a dream in slow
motion. For a moment, Ted thought that his worst fear had come true, that all
of this—the email with the numbers, the jackpot, the house in Encino—had been
just a dream, which had finally ended.

Only Ted knew he was not waking up. It was something
else. It was the
other
thing that he had been fearing since winning the
lottery.

Ted wheeled around and dashed to Pete. His heart
pounding heavily, he shook his son by the shoulders. “Wake up, Pete! Wake up!”
He was almost yelling. “Wake the fuck up!”

Pete remained asleep and motionless. Thanks to Ted’s
efforts to wake him up, Pete’s head was hanging so low now his chin rested on
his chest, which made him appear dead. He could be dead, for all Ted knew.

Horrified, Ted lowered his cheek to his son’s nostrils
and waited a few seconds, which seemed like a year to him. Then he closed his
eyes and heaved a sigh of relief; Pete was still breathing. Thank God, his son
was still alive. But it didn’t take a doctor to see that Pete’s breath was
terribly weak.

Pete was about to die, and with him would die Ted’s
chances of receiving winning numbers from Nick. His two hundred million dollars
would be gone.

Perhaps, Nick Duplass was Pete’s great-great-great
grandson. Or maybe Pete was the only one who would bother to remember Ted’s
instructions.

All hope was not lost, however. He could still reverse
his slide into the alternate reality in which he never won the lottery; that
was why the watch and the house—things he had purchased with his jackpot
money—had not vanished completely.

Ted pulled his cellphone out of his jeans pocket and
swiftly dialed 911. And as soon as he heard the operator’s voice, the fading
stopped. Ted could still see through the Rolex, and the armchairs, and the
table, but they were not getting any more transparent.

“What’s your emergency?”

“My son is dying,” Ted said in firm voice. “I need an
ambulance immediately.” Then he gave the operator his address.

“What’s your son’s name?”

“Pete Duplass. And my name is Ted Duplass.”

“Can you describe what happened to him? Is he conscious
and breathing?”

“It could be alcohol poisoning, but I’m not sure. I
need an ambulance right now. He’s unconscious. He is breathing.” Ted told the
operator his address one more time.

“Help is on the way, Sir.” The operator read Ted back
his address and his cellphone number, and he confirmed that both were correct.

“Are they close?”

“Help should arrive shortly.”

“Okay. Can I hang up?”

“Yes, it’s okay to hang up.”

When Ted touched the End Call button, his Rolex
instantly came back to life, solid and substantial. The room looked real and
normal again.

15.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Ted asked,
peering at Nora’s face. It was October 25th. His death was four days away.  

“What do you mean?” Nora took her eyes off the TV and
looked at Ted. “You want to hear how my day was?”

“Maybe. How was it?”

“I didn’t spend too much today, if that’s what you’re
worried about.”

‘Why the fuck do you want to kill
me?’
These words
were dancing on the tip of Ted’s tongue, and he was seriously considering
uttering them out loud.

How do you start a conversation like that? 

It had become clear to Ted by now that the best way to
solve the problem was to make Nora disappear
.
How far was he willing to
go? Was he ready to nail Nora’s feet together and dump her in the desert to
die? 

“Why do you want to kill me?” Ted asked.

He decided to take the bulls by the horns.

Nora frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said, why do you want to kill me.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t want to kill you.”
Nora creased her forehead. “Is it a joke, Ted?”

How was he going to take Nora out? Shoot her? Where? He
couldn’t do it at home; that would be too risky. Off the top of his head, he’d
say that the safest option would be to make her death look like a street
mugging gone wrong. A late night mugging on the other side of the county.

A positive thing about guns was that it was fairly easy
to kill with them: just pull the trigger, and you’re done. Their big downside
was noise; these suckers were very loud, even with a silencer. Besides, an
unregistered pistol was not easy to obtain. You could end up in prison just for
trying to buy one.

The question was: would he have the guts to pull the
damn trigger when the moment came?

Ted didn’t consider knives, blades, or any other
cutting instruments. He knew for sure he was not capable of slitting Nora’s
throat or stabbing her in the chest. It was just too savage for him. He felt
the same about strangling or beating Nora to death.

Hiring a hitman was not an option. Ted had no desire to
risk being blackmailed for the rest of his life.

Divorce remained out of the question. Ted couldn’t
allow Nora to get rich at his expense after she had betrayed him. He also kept
in mind that California had a six-month waiting period for divorces, which
meant that Nora would have at least half a year to take care of him.

Anyway, this whole discussion was pointless. Nick had
told him his future; Nora was going to kill him, no matter what precautions he
would take.

“I want you to stop it, Nora,” Ted said.

“Stop what?” Nora appeared sincerely puzzled.

“They’re going to find out that it was you who killed
me. Believe me, Nora, I know what I’m talking about. Just give it up, please.”

“Where are you getting these ridiculous ideas from,
Ted? I don’t want to kill you, I swear.”

“You know exactly where this is coming from. You know
why I’m sure that it’s true.”

“Really?” Nora knitted her brows. “Wait a second. Is
that what this guy from the future told you?”

“Yes. The guy from the future told me that.”

“And you believed him?”

“I’ll tell everyone that you’re trying to kill me. I’ve
given my lawyer a letter, which he’s going to give to the cops if I die. This
letter says that you’re planning to murder me in order to get all of my money
and that I fear for my life. This is bombshell evidence, Nora. Juries love that
stuff.”

“The funny thing is that I actually believe you wrote
that letter and gave it to the lawyer.”

“If anything happens to me, you’re going to prison,
Nora.”

“I’ve had enough, Ted.” Nora got up from the couch. “A
shrink—that’s what you need.” She glared at Ted. “Desperately.”

“Sit down.” Ted snarled.

“What did you say?” Nora squinted.

“I had my whiskey decanter tested a few days ago. And
guess what they found? Lots and lots of Xanax.”

“Xanax? How did it end up in your whiskey? And why did
you have it tested in the first place?”

“You almost got Pete killed, do you understand that?”
Ted made a grimace. “Your own fucking son. He could have died. All because of
you, you dumb toad!”

Nora lowered her eyes. Ted started counting seconds
until she blamed the Xanax on Pete. To his surprise, Nora didn’t do it.

“I don’t know how Xanax got there.” Nora finally sat
down.

“Okay. You don’t know.” Ted nodded.

Well, this was it. He had given it a shot. Being
civilized hadn’t worked.

He was a peaceful, friendly, law-abiding man, not some
bloodthirsty monster. However, he had no other choice but to remove his wife
from this world. He had tried to warn Nora, to reason with her, hadn’t he? What
else could he do? If you think about it, he was acting in self-defense. It was
Nora who had started it; he was just minding his own business, you know. And if
he kept sitting on his thumbs, Nora would sooner or later get him, there was no
doubt about it. He didn’t want to live in fear, constantly looking over his
shoulder. Bodyguards wouldn’t solve the problem; they couldn’t be by his side
every minute of every hour. JFK had bodyguards and still got popped off.

“Here’s what I know,” Ted went on. “I know about Chuck.
Did he put you up to this?”

“Who is Chuck?”

“Chuck Coyle. Twenty nine years old, lives in Redondo
Beach. I know about him.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Nora winced with
contempt. “Oh Jesus. I bet you’re recording this conversation.”

“How long have you been fucking him? A couple of
months? A couple of years? How long?”

Ted was dying to quote a few of the sexually charged
text messages Nora and Chuck Coyle had sent to each other in the course of the
past week. He elected not to mention the texts because that would have tipped
Nora off that her cellphone had been compromised.

Nora gave a nervous laugh and shook her head. “Oh
Jesus, what does it matter to you, Ted?”

“Was it Chuck who got you the Xanax pills?”

Nora remained silent. She was scrutinizing her nails.

“I have a solution.” Ted rubbed his right jeans pocket
just to confirm that his Ruger LC9, the unregistered semi-auto compact pistol
he had acquired two days after Pete’s brush with death, was still there. The gun
was still in his pocket.

Yes, it was illegal to possess an unregistered pistol,
but he had gone ahead and bought one anyway. He had no desire to use it
tonight, however.

Ted rose to his feet and fetched his whiskey decanter
and a glass from the bar. Then he sat down, filled the glass with whiskey, and
put it on the table in front of Nora. “Drink it, please.” Ted pointed at the
glass. “You thought it was okay for me to pour this shit down my throat, so go
ahead... I’m just treating you the way you treat me. I believe that’s fair.”