“And it has to be a surprise,” she continued. “A surprise ending and a Grand Guignol.”
“I’ll see what I come up with.”
“Okay,” she said. “But I want blood.”
The rat stirred in his gut again. “But why such harsh justice?”
“Because blood debts must be paid.”
And the rat took a nip.
For another six days he worked on the synopsis, grabbing a few writing hours between classes. But that Friday classes were cancelled because of a freak snowstorm, producing lightning and thunder. Global warming, the radio said. So he took advantage of the day off and wrote without interruption. By early evening he had exhausted himself and downed a few glasses of Scotch to relax. He thought about going to bed early and getting up around four the next morning to continue working.
That’s when the FedEx delivery man came by with a package. It was the Prescott High School yearbook. He tore through the portrait pages. Yes, there was a Lauren Grant, with a few school clubs and activities listed. But no portrait photo. Nor was she in group shots. Maybe she was sick and missed the photo sessions.
At the moment, he really didn’t care. His head was soupy from exhaustion and alcohol, so he went to bed, satisfied that he had an ending that made sense—one that should satisfy her. She wanted the guy’s death, so he gave him a weak heart. In the middle of the night he thinks he sees a ghost and dies of fright. Contrived, yes. And if she didn’t like it, fuck it! It was the best he could come up with. So he e-mailed it to her and went to bed, thinking, I don’t have blood on my hands. Jessica could be alive and well today. I just didn’t want to deal with her or the baby. I was just a kid. No way I should pay for that. Nor for cheating on Maggie.
To rout the rabble in his head, he downed two sleeping pills and slipped into a dreamless oblivion.
It was a little after midnight when his phone rang. Through the furriness of his brain he heard the answering machine go on in the other room and a muffled female voice leave a message he couldn’t make out. After several minutes of lying in the dark, he got up, went to the next room and hit the play button.
“Hi, Geoff, it’s Lauren. I received your new ending and, frankly, it doesn’t work. I’m really sorry, but it’s still too weak. However, I think I’ve got the ending we’ve been looking for. Sorry about the hour, but I’m leaving first thing in the morning for the holidays and I want to share it with you in person. So, I’ll be right over.”
She clicked off, and when he tried to retrieve her number to call back, the message read Unavailable. She had called from an unlisted number. Jesus! It was past midnight. And why the hell didn’t she just e-mail it?
Suddenly his mind was a fugue. What if she wasn’t coming over simply to share her idea?
But another voice cut in: Get a grip, man. You’re letting your booze-and-Xanax-primed imagination get the best of you. That and the freak storm.
But what if she was an imposter who knew about Jessica and was out to get him? The best possible retribution.
But to what end? Surely not blackmail. She was loaded, and he was broke.
Write about what you know.
Make the guilt and fear palpable.
Her words shot through his brain like an electric arc. She was his metaphorical revenant. And his penance was having to flesh out his own guilt. His own revenge. She didn’t like it, and she was coming with the perfect payback.
No way! Impossible.
So is this freak thunder-and-lightning snowstorm.
No!
Maybe this was all Maggie’s doing. In a drunken moment years ago he had told her about Jessica. What if all three of them were in collusion and they concocted this scheme, recruiting this Lauren Grant or whatever her name was—a hit woman to get back for Jessie, for his cheating on Maggie, for all his indiscretions against women?
Even more far-fetched, he told himself. Maggie was happily involved with another guy and didn’t give a shit about him anymore. And Jessica could be dead for all he knew.
Outside the landscape lit up as if by strobe lights, and a moment later boulders rumbled across the sky. He stared through the window as lightning turn the stripped black trees behind the house into an X-rayed forest. As he watched and waited for the thunder, another thought cut across him mind like a shark fin. One that made all the sense in the world.
Because he was bad. Because he was selfish.
Because blood debts must be paid.
Suddenly he felt his gorge rise and he shot to the toilet where he flopped to his knees and threw up the contents of his stomach. As he hung over the bowl, gagging, the bathroom light began to flicker. The power lines. Every time Carleton experienced a heavy snow, sections of the town got hit with a brownout.
He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet when he heard the doorbell ring. Jesus! He shot back into the bedroom. He was tearing through his bureau drawers, underwear and pullovers spilling to the floor, when he heard something from downstairs.
“Geoffrey.”
She was inside. Had he forgotten to lock the door after the FedEx man left?
“Geoffrey, I’m here.”
He did not respond.
“Geoffrey?”
Suddenly the lights flickered again. Then they blinked out. Black. The place was dead black. Not a stray photon in the room. Not even any light seepage from the outside. The whole neighborhood was out.
“Geoffrey, please come down.”
He heard himself whimper, frozen in black, completely disoriented in his own bedroom, unable to move.
“I know you’re there.”
The next moment, the lights flickered back on.
“Come down and see what I’ve got.”
He didn’t answer. His brain still felt stunned.
“Geoffrey.”
The lights were back on, and he took several deep breaths to compose himself.
“Shall I come up?”
“No.”
“In the living room.”
After a few moments, he felt centered again and crept his way out of the bedroom and down, the creaking of the stairs sounding like bones snapping. The only other sound was that of the furnace kicking on. At the bottom, the foyer overhead burned. The living room was still dark because the lamps had not been turned on. He inched his way to the entrance and braced himself against the frame.
She was in there, standing by the dead fireplace. Her long black shearling defining her form in negative. “Surprise.”
His forehead was an aspic of fear. “I know what you want,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I know what you’re planning.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was barely audible. Over her shoulder hung her case. He could not see her hands. But in the foyer light he could see the white oval of her face. A weird grin distorted her features.
Satisfaction. Fulfillment. Retribution.
“I didn’t think you’d guess.” She removed the shoulder bag and began to open it.
“I know who you are,” he said. His fingers were nearly bloodless with cold. “I know.”
“Of course, but you can’t imagine—”
But she never finished her sentence. Without thought, he pulled the gun from his back pocket and shot her three times. She collapsed to the floor without a sound.
He snapped on the lamp. The bullets had hit her face, reducing it to a bloodied mess.
He pulled the shoulder bag from under her and tore it open.
Inside was his copy of the fully executed contract and clipped to it a bank check for $20,000. Also hard-bound copies of his books that she had wanted him to autograph for her and her parents for Christmas next week. And a sheet with her ending: He takes his own life.
His neighbors must have heard gunshots, because sometime later he heard sirens wailing their approach.
As he sat there, looking down at the blasted red pulp of her face, he thought, Well, we got our bloody surprise ending.
Then he shot himself in the head.