Read Online The Dead Are More Visible by Steven Heighton - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven Heighton
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money.
What? Justin said.
Just slip whatever you got through the crack, here by the latch. I can pry, maybe. I got some keys here.
My keys, Justin said. Janna, what are you—
I always keep a twenty separate, she said, in case.
Of course, Justin whispered.
What?
Of course you do, he told her, and now in his mind he saw, not with doting amusement but a stressed rage, Janna opening doors with her hooked pinkie, or with the same fey digit keying in her PIN at the automatic teller. This although, he’d explained, on any given day a person encountered a dozen infectious agents which, if you were weakened enough, could make you ill or worse. But she was strong—probably all the more so for her years of working with the public at the bistro, where she also did the pinkie thing. Where it must be seen as a stylish or campy affectation, not another symptom of her leery, meticulous nature.
A twenty is good, the man said. Try to slip it through here.
No! Justin said. Put the money away, Janna. He was groping in the dark, flashing the LED, trying to find her hand.
Justin, for God’s sake, I’m going to get us out of here. Someone has to.
Let her give me the money, asshole. The voice was closer now, the man kneeling, it seemed. I think you can slip it out here.
How do we know you’ll even help us, Justin said, if we give you the money?
It’s like you got a choice here? The voice was sneering. Justin inhaled sharply. Then the man added, Duh! —and this, for Justin, was the end. This soft little duh .
Fuck you! You can take our keys and your phone call and your—shove them up your ass, if you know how to find it. And I’m going to find you tomorrow! The cops are going to—
A horrific slamming beat down on them from above, then it seemed to emanate from all directions, a pummelling they felt inside, slower and steadier than their bolting hearts, as the man hammered the trunk with a fist or the flat of his hand. It could have been a street gang smashing the car with tire irons, bats. Justin rushed his hands to his ears and then to Janna’s ears, to protect what was left of her nerves. Stop! he cried. The slamming went on, Janna making a steady high whine of pain or terror. He tried pushing up on the trunk with his fist to absorb the vibrations. He rammed his palm upward once, a feeble counterblow the man nevertheless must have felt, because now he whacked the metal harder and faster. Justin curled on the floor of the trunk, clamping his palms over Janna’s ears, then over his own, back and forth. Though their bodies were jammed together at many points, in this extremity he was fully alone. She must feel the same. He guessed she must feel the same. The beating ended. Heavy footsteps stalkedaway. The night was quiet again. She was breathing slower—small, sobby catches of breath coming at longer intervals. There was a smell like ammonia and he thought he felt dampness through the right knee of his jeans. He rested a hand on her hip. She seemed to be drifting into a kind of sleep, or a gradual faint, her nervous system, he guessed, no longer able to take the stress.
Now that he didn’t have a conscious Janna to coax along, the full weight of his own fear and anger returned. He sobbed for a moment, no tears, eyelids clamped on dryness. Not for the first time he wondered if they actually could suffocate in here. Maybe that was why she’d lost consciousness. His breathing felt tight, but that could just be fear. The trauma of his head blow. A car passed, then another, and he made no effort to cry out.
After a time, soft footsteps approached.
Hello! Please help us! He tried to shout gently, afraid of ripping Janna from her stupor.
Is someone in there? A soft tone, a sort of eunuch voice—the vocal equivalent of the footsteps. Justin explained things, trying to sound calm, murmuring through the crack through which he felt, just once, a cool breath of air. The man listened with a few faint sounds of encouragement. He
What? Justin said.
Just slip whatever you got through the crack, here by the latch. I can pry, maybe. I got some keys here.
My keys, Justin said. Janna, what are you—
I always keep a twenty separate, she said, in case.
Of course, Justin whispered.
What?
Of course you do, he told her, and now in his mind he saw, not with doting amusement but a stressed rage, Janna opening doors with her hooked pinkie, or with the same fey digit keying in her PIN at the automatic teller. This although, he’d explained, on any given day a person encountered a dozen infectious agents which, if you were weakened enough, could make you ill or worse. But she was strong—probably all the more so for her years of working with the public at the bistro, where she also did the pinkie thing. Where it must be seen as a stylish or campy affectation, not another symptom of her leery, meticulous nature.
A twenty is good, the man said. Try to slip it through here.
No! Justin said. Put the money away, Janna. He was groping in the dark, flashing the LED, trying to find her hand.
Justin, for God’s sake, I’m going to get us out of here. Someone has to.
Let her give me the money, asshole. The voice was closer now, the man kneeling, it seemed. I think you can slip it out here.
How do we know you’ll even help us, Justin said, if we give you the money?
It’s like you got a choice here? The voice was sneering. Justin inhaled sharply. Then the man added, Duh! —and this, for Justin, was the end. This soft little duh .
Fuck you! You can take our keys and your phone call and your—shove them up your ass, if you know how to find it. And I’m going to find you tomorrow! The cops are going to—
A horrific slamming beat down on them from above, then it seemed to emanate from all directions, a pummelling they felt inside, slower and steadier than their bolting hearts, as the man hammered the trunk with a fist or the flat of his hand. It could have been a street gang smashing the car with tire irons, bats. Justin rushed his hands to his ears and then to Janna’s ears, to protect what was left of her nerves. Stop! he cried. The slamming went on, Janna making a steady high whine of pain or terror. He tried pushing up on the trunk with his fist to absorb the vibrations. He rammed his palm upward once, a feeble counterblow the man nevertheless must have felt, because now he whacked the metal harder and faster. Justin curled on the floor of the trunk, clamping his palms over Janna’s ears, then over his own, back and forth. Though their bodies were jammed together at many points, in this extremity he was fully alone. She must feel the same. He guessed she must feel the same. The beating ended. Heavy footsteps stalkedaway. The night was quiet again. She was breathing slower—small, sobby catches of breath coming at longer intervals. There was a smell like ammonia and he thought he felt dampness through the right knee of his jeans. He rested a hand on her hip. She seemed to be drifting into a kind of sleep, or a gradual faint, her nervous system, he guessed, no longer able to take the stress.
Now that he didn’t have a conscious Janna to coax along, the full weight of his own fear and anger returned. He sobbed for a moment, no tears, eyelids clamped on dryness. Not for the first time he wondered if they actually could suffocate in here. Maybe that was why she’d lost consciousness. His breathing felt tight, but that could just be fear. The trauma of his head blow. A car passed, then another, and he made no effort to cry out.
After a time, soft footsteps approached.
Hello! Please help us! He tried to shout gently, afraid of ripping Janna from her stupor.
Is someone in there? A soft tone, a sort of eunuch voice—the vocal equivalent of the footsteps. Justin explained things, trying to sound calm, murmuring through the crack through which he felt, just once, a cool breath of air. The man listened with a few faint sounds of encouragement. He
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