The Devil's Wire (11 page)

24

When she was in college, Jennifer had trained for a marathon. Being a complete novice, she sought advice from a sports coach, a fifty-something bear of a man appropriately named Jack Fit. Jack Fit obliged her by designing a program for her to follow three months out from the race. He told her baby steps at first – jog for 1 minute, rest for 30 seconds, then jog for 2 minutes, rest for 25 seconds and so on. "The point is – " he said leaning on bent knee with a paddle-thick forearm, "build upon what you have done before until you can take off the training wheels and soar from your Mama's nest". Jack Fit also liked to toss about his catchphrase, "you just gotta bury yourself in the process". He would say it every time they met, jabbing his finger into his palm for emphasis.

Jennifer followed his advice to the letter, never missing a training session no matter the weather or how tired or busy she got and in less than six weeks she could run 13 miles in one hit. Jennifer even saw the college nutritionist and followed a strict diet of brown rice and boiled chicken and steamed broccoli. It was the most self-disciplined she had ever been. Come race day, when she gathered at the starting line, along with a few hundred other hopefuls, number 49 bib strapped to her chest, she felt like she truly deserved to be there.

It started out great. The first ten miles were fine, the next five a little harder. But she persevered, despite throwing up lime Gatorade all over herself, the brutal chafing between her thighs, and the continuous flatulence that threatened to become more.

But when she reached the 17 mile mark, she hit a wall. Not physically, but mentally. Nothing in all of her dogged, by-the-book training had prepared her for the sheer boredom of it. The monotonous pounding, the 'are-we-there-yet' child's voice stuck on repeat in her head. Around the corner was just another corner. A flat line of unhappy never-endingness, where the logic of time became illogical.

And as her light-footedness abandoned her and each step became a leaden, swamp-sucking feat, it dawned on her that above everything else – the hamstring strength, the well-developed slow-twitch muscle fibers, the mastery of the exhale stress breathing technique – the most important requirement for a marathon runner was the ability to delay gratification.
Mental stamina
.
Endurance of the mind
. Two thirds of the way through, Jennifer realized she did not have that particular attribute and collapsed and couldn't get back up.

She knew that somewhere miles up ahead at the finishing line Jack Fit was waiting in his mirrored sunglasses with a slap on the back and a fresh bottle of water, and that she should get to her feet and carry on, but when some old lady in a purple tank top offered Jennifer a granola bar and a lift to the First Aid bay in her ancient green VW, Jennifer agreed.

Jennifer takes a heavy drag from the cigarette and thinks about that race. What had started out as a triumph based on good planning and determination ended in dismal failure. That marathon attempt, so long ago now, had been death by a thousand cuts. Much like tonight. The waiting. The need for all this to be over before she broke.

"Take this."

Lenise hands her a glass.

"I can't drink anything."

"You can and you will. You'll need another before he arrives."

Jennifer takes the tumbler, stamps out her cigarette and immediately lights another.

"It's chilly out here," says Lenise. "Let's go inside."

"The cold makes me feel better."

Jennifer drinks some more. The glass shakes in her hand.

"Everything will be okay if you just stick to the plan," says Lenise.

"I just want it over."

"You can do this, Jenny. Just think of McKenzie. By the way, she was asleep the last time I checked."

"She loves spending time at your house. Better than here," says Jennifer.

"Nonsense."

"Sometimes she looks at me like it's my fault."

"Don't go down that track. It won't do anyone any good, least of all yourself. Is everything done?"

Jennifer nods.

"Excellent."

They fall silent.

"Hear that?" says Jennifer.

"What?"

"There's a screech owl out there somewhere. I've heard it every night since I've been back. It makes me feel better just knowing it's there."

"A guardian angel."

"Something like that."

"Superstition is for dummies," says Lenise.

"You know," says Jennifer. "Sometimes you could try being a little less blunt."

"There's nothing wrong with honesty."

"All I'm saying is there's ways of putting things."

They fall silent. Lenise sips her drink.

"In South Africa hunters use a particular type of booby trap. They dig a hole, place a wire around the circumference, cover it with leaves then wait for the animal to walk by. When the thing falls in, the hunter tugs the wire and triggers a special type of slipknot that contracts around the animal's neck and strangles it. It's called The Devil's Wire."

"So we're doing the Devil's work now, terrific," says Jennifer.

"Sometimes the animal gets decapitated."

"Nice."

Lenise drains her glass and opens the door to go inside.

"Shit happens," she says.

25

She is in the kitchen, waiting, hands palm down on the countertop trying to calm her shuddering breath. Close by are the divorce papers, blue biro laid across the top, wine glass a quarter full next to an open bottle of Australian red. Her stomach rolls at the smell of tannins and she turns away to watch pearls slip from the faucet and thump into the sink.

It's not long before she hears fumbling at the backdoor and footsteps in the hallway.

"Jen, what are you doing here?"

He's genuinely surprised.

"Jen," he says again. "What's all this about?"

He regards her, wary, eyes scanning the room.

"There's no gun," she says.

"Okay."

She straightens her spine and picks up her wine glass.

"They know I'm here with you – my lawyer, the police – and they'll be here in seconds if you try anything."

"Brave," he says.

"I won't be scared in my own home, Hank."

He takes off his jacket and lays it across the dining room chair. There's a waft of Jovan Musk. She can feel herself shake, and tries it hide it, but decides it probably doesn't matter. He nods at the wine.

"May I?"

Without waiting for a reply, he retrieves a glass from the cupboard, pours himself a drink and takes a fulsome mouthful.

"You always did have good taste," he says, taking another sip and sitting.

"This isn't a party, Hank."

He looks at the dripping faucet. "I keep meaning to fix that."

She pushes the divorce papers toward him.

"I wanted to make sure you signed these."

He glances down at the papers.

"I can't believe it's come to this."

"Well, believe it."

He drains his glass and pours another.

"When did you become so cold?" he says. He waves a hand. "Oh, no I'm not talking about now, I mean before all this. You were cold long before now."

She can barely contain her outrage. "You're blaming me?"

"You've never been happy. I've never been good enough. Even McKenzie, you – "

"Don't you dare."

"You always made her feel like a disappointment. Her weight, her school work."

"Stop it."

"All she ever wanted was for you to love her, accept her,
unconditionally
. You know what that word means Jen – unconditional?"

She picks up the papers and slams them down in front of him.

"Sign them and get out."

He looks at her. "I'm not signing anything."

"It's over, Hank, and there's nothing you can do about it."

He gets to his feet and points a finger in her face.

"You are my fucking wife."

She takes a step backward. "I want you out of my life."

"Tear up those damn papers."

"You don't scare me, Hank."

"You're my wife and you'll do as you're fucking well told." He grabs the papers and shoves them in her face.

She pushes him away.

He looks at her then pauses. "That's the third time you've done that," he says.

"What?"

"Checked your watch. What's going on?"

He begins to waver on his feet. He looks at his wine glass on the countertop and picks it up, angles it under the light. He turns to her and smiles.

"Clever," he starts to laugh. "Oh, very clever. You put something in the wine."

"Don't be ridiculous."

He continues to laugh. Jennifer's temple pounds. It isn't working quickly enough. He should be flat on his back by now. He sways dramatically, catches himself and holds out the glass.

"Drink it."

"I'm not trying to poison you, Hank, if that's what you think."

He steps forward, the laughter now gone, and presses the glass to her lips.

"I said drink it."

She tries to push him away. "Let go of me."

"You stupid bitch."

He throws the glass, smashing it against the pantry door. He rushes for her and puts his hands around her throat.

"Stop it, Hank."

His hands grip her jugular, crushing the tiny bones in her larynx, and Jennifer begins to see grey snow. She tries to hold on. Lenise should be here any second.

Then his hold softens, slips away entirely and she scrambles backward until she collides with the wall, gasping and sucking in oxygen.

Hank squints at her and tries to say something but can't form the words. He gives his head two hard shakes and stumbles into the coffee table, tipping like a felled pine, crashing to the floor, flat on his back, final and silent.

Lenise appears.

"Oh God," says Jennifer. "He's dead."

"Don't be stupid. Can't you see him breathing."

"Where were you, he could've killed me."

"I had to wait, give it time to work."

Lenise disappears and comes back with a fitness bag. "We need to tie him up."

She rolls him onto his front.

"Help me."

Jen pulls his hands behind his back and Lenise does the zip ties and the gag.

"What's the time?" Lenise asks.

"Twenty to twelve."

"Ron will be here soon."

They sit down to wait.

26

The lump that is Jennifer's husband lies on the linoleum in front of them. The pose of the child, Lenise had once heard a yoga teacher call it. And right now it seems preposterous to see a grown man in such a state of vulnerability, preposterous and strangely gratifying.

His sleeping face is turned toward them in the half-light. He is snoring. The sound rattles Lenise's nerves and she fights the urge to strike him or roll him over or pinch his nose in order to stop it.

She glances at Jennifer who has remained quiet since they had bound his wrists. She has made a meal of her fingernails and is beginning on the quick. She had done well, though. Lenise hadn't been entirely sure Jennifer wouldn't crack.

"It's after 12," says Jennifer, getting up to look out the window.

"Ron's a professional. He'll be here."

Jennifer folds her arms across her chest. "I don't like this."

"Be patient."

Jennifer continues to savage her digits. Another ten minutes passes. Then twenty. Still no sign of Ron. Lenise joins Jennifer and stares at the empty street.

"There'll be a good reason why he's late, I'm sure of it," says Lenise.

"Call him."

"Ron said not to, in case things could be traced back."

Jennifer nods toward Hank. "What if he wakes up?"

"He'll be out for another hour at least."

Jennifer looks at her watch. "It's 12:45. I think you should call him."

"Alright. Don't get your knickers in a twist," snaps Lenise.

She pulls out her cell phone and dials Ron's number. Straight to voicemail. She clicks off.

"Something must be wrong," she says.

"Maybe he had an accident."

"Possibly."

Jennifer stares at Lenise. "He's not coming, is he?"

"For God's sake, will you cut it out."

Lenise tries his phone again. Leaves a curt message.
Call me
.

"He's taken the money and run," says Jennifer.

"Ron wouldn't do that."

"Why not? He'll beat someone up for cash but won't swindle a couple of stupid women? I bet he's laughing at us right now. We were easy pickings."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Take a look around you, Lenise. Where is this knight in shining armor?"

Hank groans.

"Oh God, he's waking up," says Jennifer.

"That's impossible."

"Well, I'm not imagining things, Lenise. You can see him as clearly as me."

"Did you put the entire amount in the wine?"

"Yes."

"You couldn't have."

"I did!"

"You must have made a mistake," says Lenise.

"Me? What about you? Did you work out the correct dosage for his weight and height?"

"There was enough to sink a ship."

"Apparently not," says Jennifer.

Hank moves his legs.

"We don't have long," says Lenise. "Where's the gun?"

"What!"

"We need it."

Jennifer shakes her head. "No."

Lenise pushes past her. "Stupid woman."

She opens the cutlery drawer and takes out the biggest knife.

"What are you doing?" cries Jennifer.

"We haven't got a choice. He's going to wake up and there's nothing we can do about it."

Lenise stands over the groaning Hank. Jennifer steps in front of her.

"We have to let him go," says Jennifer.

"Let him go? Are you crazy? You untie him, he kills us. Even if he doesn't do it now, he'll come back."

"I'll tell him he hit his head and passed out."

"That's ridiculous."

"I'll say I drugged him but I was an idiot for doing it."

Hank is raising himself off the floor like a punch-drunk fighter. Lenise holds out the knife to Jennifer.

"It will be self-defense," she says.

Jennifer takes a step back. "No way."

"Don't be weak."

"I won't do it."

He is on his feet, shakes his head thickly. He looks over his shoulder at his zip-tied wrists.

"What the fuck…" he slurs.

He looks at Lenise, confused to see her there. His eyes jump to the knife in her hand. Fear clouds his features, then rage. He growls and stumbles as if to grab the knife but forgets about his bound hands and loses balance and goes down, falling forward, straight into Lenise and the knife.

It feels, to Lenise, as if a sack of rocks has been leveled at her, and she lies trapped beneath the weight, unsure in that moment whether the knife has plunged into him or her. She can hear screaming. Stupid Jenny, she thinks, then realizes the noise is coming from inside her own head. She tries to shout but her mouth is pressed into the bone of his shoulder.

She feels release and sees light. He has somehow hauled himself up and is standing above her, the knife stuck in his ribs like some sort of ghoulish Halloween trick. He looks down at the knife in disbelief then lurches across the kitchen, bumping into the table, the cupboards, the fridge.

"What have you done!" yells Jennifer.

"Quick, help me up. I've hurt my arm," says Lenise.

Hank figure eights in an expanding pool of blood.

"Hank, you're hurt, you need to stop moving," implores Jennifer.

He tries to talk but it comes out as a whistle.

"Hank please do as I say."

His movements are slowing, becoming exaggerated, his breathing strangled and faint. Jennifer tries to go to him but Lenise holds her back.

"
Wait
," says Lenise.

"Let me go!" Jennifer struggles against Lenise. "We need help!"

"Just wait."

They watch color leach from his face and he stumbles and falls. He lies in the red mess on the floor still and silent, the knife in his side like a handle. They wait for him to get back up but he doesn't. Lenise kneels down and checks his pulse then stands up and looks at Jennifer.

"What a fucking disaster," she says.