Read Online The Deputy by Victor Gischler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victor Gischler
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gas pedal stomped flat.
It was all too easy to imagine. Her on the floor dead while they sacked the place looking for the keys. Or maybe they’d do worse than kill her. Who could say? Anything. And the boy. I edged forward in my seat, strained against the safety belt, willing the Nova to go faster. The engine screamed so loud I thought it would explode any minute.
I slowed as I approached the trailer park entrance and killed the lights. I parked half a block away then headed for my trailer with my revolver out. No lights in the windows. I tried to make my heartbeat slow, and I told myself a little story about how Doris probably just went back to bed and was too lazy to answer the phone. I scanned the driveway and both sides of the trailer but didn’t see the Mustang or any other cars.
I didn’t see Doris’s car either.
When my boot hit the middle step up to the door, the creak was so loud it made me wince. I held my breath, but nothing happened. I tried to turn the knob. Locked. I stuck the key in and turned slowly. I swung the door open quietly an inch at a time, stepped in, closed the door easy behind me without a loud click.
The revolver felt sweaty and heavy in my hand. I wanted to be ready, but I didn’t want to blast Doris by mistake. I stood a long time listening. It seemed like a long time, but it was probably only ten seconds. My mouth felt dry and cottony.
A flickering white light from the living room, dim and twitchy, jagged shadows on the wall and ceiling. I eased down the hall, gun in front of me, rounded the corner and saw the television turned onto a station of white noise. There was a rectangle in the middle of the TV screen, and when I took two steps closer, I saw it was a piece of notebook paper scotch-taped to the screen.
I peeled it off and flipped on the nearest lamp.
It was a note. From Doris.
Toby,
I can’t do this anymore. I do not love you,
and I don’t think I ever did, although I
wish I did because you’re a good father and
a good person. But this just isn’t me. I have
to get out. If you won’t come, then I’ll go it
alone. I’ll send money for the boy once I’m
set up in Houston. Don’t hate me. It’s no use, so please just don’t hate me. I knew you’d be
home soon, so I left the boy sleeping—
I knocked over the lamp and end table when I jumped up and ran for my son’s room. I burst through the door, stood panting over his crib.
He lay sleeping, the covers completely kicked off. Fresh diaper, Bob the Builder t-shirt halfway up his chest, showing off his perfect round belly. His mouth hung open, his bottom lip looking like pink porcelain. A faint blush on his cheeks.
I set my revolver on his dresser and scooped him up, didn’t care if I woke him. I needed to feel his weight against my chest, touch the thin hair on his head. He didn’t wake, just made a little toddler noise and wormed his head into my armpit. I backed into the rocking chair, shifted until he was comfortable in my arms. One of his pudgy hands rested on my chest. He felt so warm and solid.
I felt that ache behind my eyes I always get when I’m about to cry. I held it back. No time. Not now. Some kind of relief. An emotional release. But not now. I let it turn to anger.
All I could think was Bitch. Goddamn bitch . How could she run off and leave him like that? Our son. My boy. Anything could have happened. When he was eight months old, I came home from a shift, walked past Doris watching Montel on the couch and found the boy in the kitchen. He sat in the playpen, face going blue. I grabbed him, panicked, flipped him upside down and slapped his back until the grape popped out. They say grapes and chunks of hotdog are the two biggest culprits for toddler choking. They’ll stick anything into their mouths. I remember my mom pulling a dry bean out of my nostril once.
Doris had felt so bad, I hadn’t yelled at her about it. But now all I could think was Just figures. Goddamn bitch. Fucking stupid bitch
It was all too easy to imagine. Her on the floor dead while they sacked the place looking for the keys. Or maybe they’d do worse than kill her. Who could say? Anything. And the boy. I edged forward in my seat, strained against the safety belt, willing the Nova to go faster. The engine screamed so loud I thought it would explode any minute.
I slowed as I approached the trailer park entrance and killed the lights. I parked half a block away then headed for my trailer with my revolver out. No lights in the windows. I tried to make my heartbeat slow, and I told myself a little story about how Doris probably just went back to bed and was too lazy to answer the phone. I scanned the driveway and both sides of the trailer but didn’t see the Mustang or any other cars.
I didn’t see Doris’s car either.
When my boot hit the middle step up to the door, the creak was so loud it made me wince. I held my breath, but nothing happened. I tried to turn the knob. Locked. I stuck the key in and turned slowly. I swung the door open quietly an inch at a time, stepped in, closed the door easy behind me without a loud click.
The revolver felt sweaty and heavy in my hand. I wanted to be ready, but I didn’t want to blast Doris by mistake. I stood a long time listening. It seemed like a long time, but it was probably only ten seconds. My mouth felt dry and cottony.
A flickering white light from the living room, dim and twitchy, jagged shadows on the wall and ceiling. I eased down the hall, gun in front of me, rounded the corner and saw the television turned onto a station of white noise. There was a rectangle in the middle of the TV screen, and when I took two steps closer, I saw it was a piece of notebook paper scotch-taped to the screen.
I peeled it off and flipped on the nearest lamp.
It was a note. From Doris.
Toby,
I can’t do this anymore. I do not love you,
and I don’t think I ever did, although I
wish I did because you’re a good father and
a good person. But this just isn’t me. I have
to get out. If you won’t come, then I’ll go it
alone. I’ll send money for the boy once I’m
set up in Houston. Don’t hate me. It’s no use, so please just don’t hate me. I knew you’d be
home soon, so I left the boy sleeping—
I knocked over the lamp and end table when I jumped up and ran for my son’s room. I burst through the door, stood panting over his crib.
He lay sleeping, the covers completely kicked off. Fresh diaper, Bob the Builder t-shirt halfway up his chest, showing off his perfect round belly. His mouth hung open, his bottom lip looking like pink porcelain. A faint blush on his cheeks.
I set my revolver on his dresser and scooped him up, didn’t care if I woke him. I needed to feel his weight against my chest, touch the thin hair on his head. He didn’t wake, just made a little toddler noise and wormed his head into my armpit. I backed into the rocking chair, shifted until he was comfortable in my arms. One of his pudgy hands rested on my chest. He felt so warm and solid.
I felt that ache behind my eyes I always get when I’m about to cry. I held it back. No time. Not now. Some kind of relief. An emotional release. But not now. I let it turn to anger.
All I could think was Bitch. Goddamn bitch . How could she run off and leave him like that? Our son. My boy. Anything could have happened. When he was eight months old, I came home from a shift, walked past Doris watching Montel on the couch and found the boy in the kitchen. He sat in the playpen, face going blue. I grabbed him, panicked, flipped him upside down and slapped his back until the grape popped out. They say grapes and chunks of hotdog are the two biggest culprits for toddler choking. They’ll stick anything into their mouths. I remember my mom pulling a dry bean out of my nostril once.
Doris had felt so bad, I hadn’t yelled at her about it. But now all I could think was Just figures. Goddamn bitch. Fucking stupid bitch
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