The Widow's Husband

2

Sarah Tuttle

SARAH TUTTLE WATCHED her husband of nine years retreat across the room and disappear through the doorway like a bad dream.  She entertained the thought that it had been just that, a dream from which she would soon awaken.  In all the years they had been together, Allan had never come home early.  He also had never stood up for himself, let alone her.  All in all, a dream seemed more likely.

The alternative, that Allan had caught her cheating and cold-cocked Mike, was inconceivable.  Yet, Mike was laying on top of her, unconscious, like so much dead weight.  And the idea that Mike had fallen asleep in the middle of sex was even more unbelievable.  No.  Allan had been there.  He had untied her hands.  And he had left her there, trapped beneath the man he assaulted.  Despite her situation, she couldn’t help but grin.  It was a pleasant surprise that he had come to her ‘rescue’. 

Mike, Sarah shook the man.  His body lay heavily on her legs, the pressure, like a compress, reducing her circulation.  He did not rouse.  She shook him harder.  Mike.  Get up, Mike.

She reached over and slapped him on the side of his large head.  She felt something moist.  When she withdrew her hand, she saw her fingers were stained red with blood, the warm liquid sliding down her slender digits.  Recognition struck her like a bolt of lightning and her eyes grew wide as a chill crawled the length of her spine.  Squeezing her hands into tight fists, she struck the man’s bare upper body, Mike!  Mike!

She placed the palms of her hands on his bare shoulder and heaved.  Pushing away and up, she was relieved to feel movement and strained even harder, using every ounce of muscle she had, until she realized she was only shifting the flesh around his frame.  She let go and his mass flowed back into place like a wave.  She needed leverage.  He was far too large for him to move with her arms alone.  Straining against the ties that bound her legs to the bedposts only served to tighten their hold.  She stretched across Mike’s body trying to reach the knots to no avail.  She fell back into her pillow defeated. 

Considering her options, her mind drifted to Allan and his unexpected act of heroism.  Mike stopped thrusting so abruptly she knew something was wrong.  Opening her eyes, the last thing she expected to see was her husband standing over her with the small bust of that poet and a twitch in his eyes.  In that moment, she actually believed she was next.  It took her a second listening to him saying he had rescued her to understand what had happened.  The first time he ever did anything remotely romantic and his timing was lousy.

Taking the job at the temp agency a decade ago, she had no idea that the first job she would be sent on would be to type for an author she had read.  She enjoyed his writings and imagined the author to be similar to the main characters in his novels, which turned out to be far from the truth.  She enjoyed working with Allan, transcribing his handwritten notes into typed pages, a novel coming to life before her very eyes.  It was exciting, and although he did not have the physical presence she had expected, knowing that the traits of the heroes came from Allan’s mind excited her as well.  She pursued him.  She controlled the evolution of their relationship.  And when the time was right, she pushed him into asking her to marry him.

It was good, at first.  He was a good man, despite his many quirks.  She thought his use of typewriters rather than computers was a way for him to stay close to his art; the feel and smell of the paper, sound of the keys striking the page.  In time, she learned that it was an irrational fear of technology; computers, cell phones, you name it, he avoided it.  He thought they were used to watch him, to steal his writing.  He didn’t own anything with a microchip or motherboard.

His brilliant creative mind was limited to the written word.  He had absolutely no imagination when it came to physical intimacy, which was why she desired other stimuli.  It was because of this extracurricular activity that she convinced Allan to buy the cabin, suggesting that he might do well to have a quiet place to work on his novels.  A ploy that worked splendidly.  He grew to enjoy writing at the cabin, said being out of the city allowed him to concentrate on the stories and characters he was developing.  What she did not take into account was Allan’s most interesting moments were while he was writing, when he was thinking like the hero-characters she wanted him to be.  With the cabin, he was only home when he wasn’t writing, when he was the most like . . . himself.  So, while he was away getting his creative juices flowing, she was using other outlets to get her own juices flowing.

Mike, she said pushing at the man’s shoulder again.  Wake up, you overgrown ox.

She was tied up because she had a bit of a kinky streak Allan would never understand.  Each time he went to the cabin to write or on one of those so-called research trips, she invited someone over to satisfy her needs.  Allan always called before coming home, either from the airport or from the little general store down the road from the cabin.  It gave her plenty of time to prepare the house for his return, as if nothing ever happened while he was away.

God, Mike, she said, rolling into his body with hers and forcing him to move a little, though nowhere near enough.  She lay back and screamed in frustration.  He still didn’t stir.

She had three secret partners in all and none of them knew of the others.  Three men with different talents that satisfied different needs.  She wasn’t going to win the wife of the year.  Sure, when Allan was home, she was the perfect wife.  She cleaned, cooked, helped with his typing, and saw to his physical needs.  And she helped him in other ways too.  For instance, the man lying on top of her, Mike Bishop, was Allan’s agent.  Mike had always worked hard for Allan.  After a business trip to New York where Sarah met Mike and hooked up with the agent that night after Allan went to sleep, Mike was working even harder.  In fact, the reason he was in town was to pick up a copy of the updated manuscript to take to a meeting in Hollywood to discuss a movie deal.  He had arrived a day early to spend some time with her before Allan got back.  In a way, being with Mike was business.  The fact that he liked to tie her up was just a benefit, until now.

Sarah put both her hands on the man and pushed with every ounce of strength she could muster.  She moved him as far as she could, quickly shifting her efforts to roll her hips.  The weight of Mike’s body started to shift until its center of gravity reached the critical point.  One side of Sarah’s body was freed, and the blood rushed into her leg.  Finally, able to bend at the waist, Sarah stretched, pushed, and squirmed until she was able to reach the binds and free herself.

Sarah rubbed her legs until the tingling stopped and slid off the bed.  Pulling on her robe, she sat on the edge of the bed, looked at Mike’s face.  She felt the color drain from her own.  A dark wet patch on the side of his head made her cringe.  She touched him gingerly, leaned in close and whispered, Mike, are you okay?

No response.  She closed her eyes and sighed.  After all the things she had done to promote Allan's career.  The letter writing, the typing, the planning, the pushing; after nine long years of hard work, Allan had killed his agent.  Everything was going to spiral out of control unless she could think of a way to fix it.

An hour later, fully dressed, she was waiting on the porch with a plan.  A blue sports car pulled into the driveway, backing in as she had requested.  A tall, lean, muscular man emerged from the driver’s side.  Jimmy Falcon was partner number two, a younger, handsome man who was not always a saint, not always bright, and not always employed.  Most importantly, he aspired to be an actor.  Looking like a giant next to the small sports car, she often wondered how he fit himself into it.  For the moment, she could only wonder if Mike would fit in the trunk.

Hey, babe, Jimmy said, lifting her off her feet in a bear hug and kissing her hard on the lips.  I didn’t think you were going to call this week.

Change of plans, Jimmy, she said pushing at his thick arms.  We don’t have time for that now.

There’s always time for that, he grinned, squeezing her tighter.

Not now, she snapped.

Reluctantly he set her down.  He looked like a scolded child, even digging one toe into the grooves of the brick stairway.

Listen, Jimmy, Sarah inhaled deeply.  How do you ask a man to get rid of a dead body?  You know how you’re always saying you would do anything for me?  Do you mean it?

Sure, babe, Jimmy smiled.  You know I would.

Do you really mean it? Sarah asked with a forcefulness that caused him to hesitate.  Anything covers a lot of territory.

Sure, Sarah, Jimmy nodded.  I’d even kill for you if it came to it.

Good, Sarah said.

It hasn’t, has it?

What?

Come to killing for you?

No, Sarah said.  Close, but no.  Follow me.

Sarah led Jimmy by the hand to the bedroom, a path very familiar to him.  Reaching the door, she stepped to one side and let Jimmy enter alone.  A few seconds later he reappeared.  He looked at Sarah and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.  You got a naked dead man in there.

About that, she said taking his hand again.  Let’s talk.

They sat thigh to thigh on the sofa in the living room while she explained the situation.  Jimmy listened intently, patiently.  She concluded with her plan and sat quietly waiting to hear what he would say.  A long silence followed.  She put a hand on his knee, Jimmy?  What do you think?

He looked as though he might say something.  His mouth closed.  He looked at her, trying to form a complete thought from the jumble in his mind.  So, the guy in your room ain’t your husband?

No, Sarah said diverting her eyes from his.

He’s your husband’s agent?

Yes.

And your husband killed him?

Yes.

Where is he now?

My husband?

Yes.

At the cabin.

Jimmy paused, considering, You have a cabin?

Jimmy, Sarah sighed.  That’s not important.

Your husband finds you in bed with his agent . . .

He didn’t realize it was his agent, Sarah corrected.

Your husband finds you in bed with some guy, Jimmy shook his head.  It could have been me.  He looked around the room.  You sure he’s at the cabin?

Positive, she lied.  She had no idea where he was.  Are you going to help me or what?

Dump the body?

Right, she said.  Then take his ticket and fly to Hollywood.

Meet these people, he continued, and get the contract signed.

Then come back here, she smiled, and we can go away together.

Just us?

And the money.

He grinned at that.  A moment later the grin faded, They’ll know I’m not him.

No.  They won’t, she assured him.  Mike said . . .

Who?

Mike, Sarah said.  The agent’s name was Mike.  He told me this was his first time to fly to Hollywood.  They won’t know him.  You’re an actor.  You can become him.  Just long enough to get the contract signed.

Jimmy was nodding his head. Yeah, I can do it.

Great, Sarah hugged him.  She sat back again and lifted Mike’s briefcase to her lap and released the latches.  Now, his Day-Timer has his hotel and appointments.  You’ll know when to be where and who you’ll be meeting.

Why were you screwing him when you could have been with me? Jimmy asked.

It was business, honey, Sarah patted his leg.  Don’t worry about it.  You are the one I care about.  You know that, don’t you?

I guess, he said.  I just . . .

Jimmy, she cut him off, we don’t have time right now.  We’ll talk when you get back.  Okay?

Okay, he grimaced.

All right then, she turned back to the briefcase, His ticket is here and we’ll get his ID from his clothes.

You know I can’t wear this, Jimmy indicated his jeans and t-shirt.  And the agent’s suit is going to be way too big for me.

You’re my husband’s height, give or take, she said.  I’ll get you a pair of slacks, a shirt and tie and you can take that sport coat in the kitchen.  They’ll be a little tight, but hopefully not too bad.  Okay?

Jimmy’s eyes scanned her face as if searching for something.  Guess I should get him into the trunk.

I’ll get the clothes.

What’s going on?

The two of them turned to the hall to see Mike staggering into the room.  They glanced at each other and back to the naked man.  He looked at them confused.  He saw his briefcase, open on the coffee table.  His hand rose to his temple and came away with blood on the fingers.

What did you do to me? he looked Sarah in the eyes.

I didn’t, she started.  The man’s eyes glazed over then rolled upward.  He pitched forward, crashing down without any effort to break his fall.  His shoulder hit the recliner and he pivoted onto his back with a thud.

He ain’t dead, Jimmy observed.

I see that, Sarah said, standing.  God.  He thinks I did this to him.

That’s the way it looks, Jimmy agreed.

I can’t go to jail, Jimmy, she looked at him pleading.  You have to do something.

Like what?

She looked down at the man.  She considered all the times she had been with him, all the positions in which he had tied her.  She enjoyed their encounters and had been distraught when she thought him dead.  She just wasn’t sure she could convince him she had not been involved in his attack.  I think we have to finish him.  We already thought he was dead.  This won’t be any different.

Jimmy stood slowly, looking back and forth between Sarah and the man.  You sure?  It’s one thing when your husband had killed him.  This would mean we are killing him.  His death would be on our hands.

When did you get so wise? Sarah asked with a slight grin.  She looked down at Mike, nodding.  I’m sure.

I said I’d kill for you, Jimmy straddled Mike’s body.  Just didn't think I would have to.

I’m sorry, Jimmy, she said.  If there were another way, I would take it.  He thinks we attacked him.  If he goes to the police, we both go to jail.  There’s just no other way.

No matter now.  He saw my face, Jimmy said dropping to one knee.  Sorry about this fella.

He closed his hands around Mike’s throat.

3

Here to There

ALLAN’S BREATHING QUICKENED as he walked.  Each time he sucked in air his chest burned, tightening like a vice trying to extract needed oxygen.  His feet protested, labored step after labored step.  He soon gave in and sat on the dirt and grime covered curb to rub them.  Removing one shoe, he carefully set it on the sidewalk beside him.  He peeled the sock from his skin, folded it gently, and tucked it into the top of the shoe.  He began kneading the sore soles of his feet, counting each rotation of his hands.  When he reached twenty, he replaced the sock and then the shoe.  After tying the strings into a perfect bow, he began the same process on the other foot.

As he worked, cars passed in both directions.  He heard horns blare and insults fly.  He cringed every time as if it were the first.  He wondered why people acted the way they did, wondered where they were going, wondered if any of them were on their way home to catch their wives in bed with another man.

A city bus rolled to a stop in front of him, the smell of tire rubber and diesel fuel wafting up to his nostrils.  The doors opened and a young couple stepped off strolling down the street hand in hand.  Allan considered the couple and how happy they appeared.  Were he and Sarah ever that happy?  He could not remember ever walking down the street holding hands.

He rose to his feet and stepped to the bus, looking up at the driver.  The heavyset man sat, hand on the door lever, staring back at him, unwavering and without emotion.  In the man’s face, Allan saw Sarah’s lover, which was ludicrous because he never saw the man’s face.  Allan stood on the curb unmoving.  The driver gave him a questioning look, shook his head, closed the doors, and drove away.

The thought of walking any further brought a tear to Allan’s eye.  He also couldn’t bear the thought of returning to sit on the curb.  He needed a phone.  He could call a taxi to take him to the cabin for the night.  It was secluded, located on the outskirts of a small town about a half-hour north, and would be the perfect place for him to gather his thoughts.

The cabin had been Sarah’s idea.  A quiet place for him to work, she had suggested; no phone, no television.  She had been right.  It was a great place for him to develop characters and storylines for his novels.  Only now, imagines of the things she may have done with all that time she had spent at home alone flooded his mind, and in none of those images was she alone.

Allan fought to stifle a yawn and failed.  After a near week-long stretch researching in Chicago, working more than sleeping, his eyelids were growing heavier by the minute.  Taking a deep breath, he started walking the short distance to a convenience store down the street.  A single payphone, a luxury that was becoming increasingly hard to find, stood against the wall of the building.  He approached, reaching for the handkerchief in his jacket pocket and was reminded that his jacket was hanging over one of his dining room chairs.

He walked to the gas pumps and took a paper towel from the window washing station, then another, and a third.  He returned to the payphone, using the towels to pick up the receiver, deposit the necessary change, and dial the number from memory.  The woman on the phone, sounding like she had smoked a pack a day for the last twenty years, told him it would be an hour.  Returning the receiver to its cradle, Allan entered the store to wait.

Stepping into the harsh fluorescent lighting, Allan kept his head down, glancing quickly at the store clerk who watched him in silence.  He felt the man’s eyes boring into his back as he strolled down the aisles.  Glancing over his shoulder time and again, Allan would catch the clerk’s unrelenting gaze.  He soon came to a stop in front of a drink cooler stocked full of various brands of waters, sodas, and energy drinks.  Allan examined the variety of labels and bottle shapes contemplating at length which he might want.  Every few seconds, he glanced to his side, making eye contact with the clerk.

Allan decided on a bottled water with a symmetrical label.  With a paper towel in hand, he opened the cooler door, held it in place with his knee and reached in for the drink.  The store entrance chimed, and Allan looked in that direction as a teen in a sleeveless t-shirt and torn jeans walked in and made a direct approach to the fountain machine.  Allan was relieved to see the clerk turn his scrutiny on the younger customer.  He promptly started wiping down the bottle with the paper towel.

Satisfied, Allan made his way to the front counter.  Just as he got there, the teen pushed past him, knocking the bottle from his hand.  Allan watched in shock as the bottle struck the floor and skidded a short distance away.  Oblivious, the teen paid for his purchase and left the store.  The clerk’s gaze returned to Allan.

Allan stooped and, with paper towel in hand, scooped up the bottle and placed it on the counter.  The clerk lifted the bottle, turned it in his hands, and used the scan gun to ring it up.  The clerk set the bottle back down and said, Will that be all?

Allan stood, eyes focused on the bottle.

Mister, the clerk said.  You need anything else?  Smokes?  Candy bar?

No, Allan finally said.  That’s all.

The clerk gave Allan the total and watched as his customer struggled to hold his money clip with a damp paper towel.  Allan counted the money as he handed it to the clerk, picked up the bottle, and started wiping it vigorously with the towel.  Under the clerk’s disapproving glare, he left the store to wait for the taxi.

Allan stood on the sidewalk in front of the store, his eyelids growing heavy with each passing minute.  He swayed.  A short burst of a car horn shocked him back to life.  He jumped with eyes wide, at the taxi just a few feet away.  The driver leaned toward the open passenger window, shouting, You call a cab?

A half-hour later, Allan’s head rested against the window, which he had wiped down vigorously for a good two minutes.  They passed the general store where it was rumored old Mr. Jasper had been selling groceries for over one hundred years.  Allan guessed the man to be in his seventies, nothing near what the rumors suggested.  At the site of the store, Allan sat forward in his seat knowing the cabbie would never see the road to the cabin on his own.  As it was, Allan almost missed the marker.  The reflector on the post had been broken in half for years.  Every time he came to the cabin, Allan promised himself he would replace it.  But once he started writing, he thought of nothing else.

Pointing at the small indicator, Allan convinced the driver to turn off the road onto the dark dirt lane that lead into even darker shadows.  The cabin was on the other side of the hill next to a lake.  The cabbie cursed more than once as the road seemed to drop away into the darkness.  It was a long climb to the top before they spilled over to the serene view of the stars reflecting off the lake’s surface.

The cabbie pulled up to the cabin and waited long enough for Allan to pay and get out of the car, leaving a trail of dust as he sped away.  Allan watched until the taillights of the taxi were swallowed by the darkness.  Standing in front of the cabin, Allan could only see the outline of the building.  Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he came to two realizations.  The first was that the few dollars he held in his hand were all he had.  His wallet was in his sport coat at the house.  The second was that along with his wallet, his coat held one other essential need; his key to the cabin. 

4

The Actor

JIMMY DROVE SOUTH WITH the window down because the air-conditioner in the old sports car didn’t work.  The agent’s briefcase, wallet, and plane ticket were on the seat next to him.  As he drove, he practiced referring to himself as Mike; having conversations with invisible passengers.  The night sky was moonless and the shadows between streetlights were darker than he remembered them ever being before.  He lit a cigarette and noticed his hands shook like they had when he did a stint in rehab to kick his addiction to pain killers.

He had never killed a man before.  Sure, he roughed up a few guys, always when he was drunk and usually over money or women.  Never killed one though.  It was unnerving.  Yet, there was something else.  A sense of power like he had never felt before floated around in his mind.  He had just performed the ultimate act of domination.  And it felt good.  Sarah always dominated him in bed, one of those things she got into.  He didn’t mind.  It was sex and that was what he was into.  He considered now if he should switch their roles.  The power he felt strangling Mike was incredible.  If Mike’s body hadn’t been there, he would have taken Sarah right there on the spot. With a dead body in the room . . . well that was just sick.

Now, that sense of power was fading and as it diminished, it was replaced by the shaking.  What if he got caught?  What if he went to prison?  He had to be sure no one found the body, or at least didn’t find it for a long time.  There was an abandoned factory about three miles south of the airport.  It was enclosed by a tall fence, but Jimmy remembered the lock was busted from the last time he was there.  It would be the perfect place to dump a body.  No one went inside the fence, no one that would call the cops, anyway.  It could be years before anyone found him, and by then he would be nothing but bones.  Drive in, dump, drive out.  That simple.

A jet flew low over his car placing him just east of the airport.  The roar of the engines was deafening, and it occurred to him the agent would never hear anything like it again.  Jimmy wondered what it would be like not to hear anything ever again, what it would be like to be dead.  He also wondered if Mike hadn’t been in town tonight, would he have been the one Sarah’s husband had tried to kill?  Some other guy might be driving around in the dark trying to find a place to dump his body.  Possibly even Mike.

It didn’t really bother Jimmy that Sarah was sleeping with another guy besides him and her husband.  It bothered him a little to find out her husband scrambled the guy’s brain.  In contrast, it made him feel good knowing she asked him to help her out of her mess.  What bothered him more was how calm she was during the whole thing.  One cold broad there.  And if it weren’t for the money, he’d just dump this stiff and disappear.  He needed cash and this was an opportunity to get a lot of it quick.  All he had to do was convince a bunch of losers he’d never met he was someone they'd never met.  Simple enough.

He drove by the old factory’s entrance before he realized what it was and slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt several yards beyond.  He turned around and pulled into the short drive leading up to the chain-link fence.  He pulled up to the gate, his headlights illuminating the area.  Looped through the holes of the links was a thick chain.  In the center of the tangle was a shiny new lock.  His plan came to a screeching halt.

Jimmy couldn’t think of another place to dump the body.  He looked up and down the road, shoved the car in gear, and backed into the bushy area next to the gate, turning off his headlights so he wouldn’t draw the attention of passersby.  Opening the trunk, Jimmy reached in, grabbed the bundle of sheets containing Mike’s body and pulled the torso up and over the edge so the body lay draped over the rear of the car.  Another pull on the legs and the body dropped like a bag of topsoil to the ground.  The sheets unraveled and Mike’s lifeless eyes stared up at him; through him to the sky beyond.  A chill crawled up Jimmy’s spine until it nestled between his shoulder blades and he shivered.

I didn’t need that, fella, he said, grabbing the man under the arms and dragging him deeper into the bushes. Out of view from the road, Jimmy untied the knots holding the sheet in place and rolled the body out onto the dirt.  Mike was in his suit.  Jimmy and Sarah agreed they should dress the guy.  Neither of them had experience dressing dead men so he looked disheveled.  For a dead man, Jimmy supposed that was okay.

Before leaving the house, Sarah had given Jimmy a change of clothes, the promised shirt and slacks belonging to her husband.  Jimmy retrieved them from the car and changed in the dark next to Mike.  From time to time he glanced back to assure himself the agent was still there and still dead.

Last, he slipped on the sport coat Sarah’s husband had left in the kitchen.  It fit surprisingly well.  Patting it down he noticed a hard object in the breast pocket.  He pulled out Allan’s wallet complete with state I.D., credit cards, and three twenties.  Jimmy stuffed the cash into his slacks.  He pulled out the I.D., letting the wallet and credit cards drop to the ground next to Mike’s body.  He stared at the face of his lover’s husband trying to see in the picture what Sarah saw in the man.  Whatever it was, he decided it didn’t translate on film.

He dug into his pants pocket and withdrew a lighter.  With a single flick, he had a flame that he held up to the card.  He watched the plastic lamination blister and melt, the photo darken.  The edges of his lips curled upward just a bit as he erased Allan’s existence, even if it was only figuratively.  As the heat of the flames reached his fingers, he dropped the remains of the card into the dirt and kicked it until the flames went out and the small ball of blackened plastic was buried in the leaves. 

Jimmy checked his watch.  His flight was still hours away.  He thought about going to a diner for breakfast but was worried he might lose track of time and miss the flight.  It would be best to go to the airport and wait.  He climbed into his car with one last glance back toward the body.  Satisfied he couldn’t see there was a dead man lying in the bushes, he sped north toward the airport.  All the way there he practiced saying his new name, Mike Bishop.  He even tried saying something intelligent about books and being an agent, instantly hoping the Hollywood bigwigs would not be much for conversation.

At the airport, he pulled his car into a spot in long-term parking, tucking the parking ticket into the visor.  He pocketed the plane ticket and pulled the briefcase out as he exited the vehicle.  There was a shelter where several people stood waiting for the next shuttle.  He looked down at the case in his hand and to the stacks of luggage around the others and felt instantly out of place.  Joining them in their wait, no one seemed to notice him.

In the airport, he found himself conscious of every security guard he passed, waiting for the one who would recognize him for the imposter he was.  Each moved on without anything more than a cursory glance in his direction.  He ducked into one of the many restaurants and ordered a hearty breakfast.  Killing and disposing of a man gave him quite an appetite.

He smiled at the waitress each time she appeared at his table.  She was definitely his type.  Asking her out crossed his mind, but he thought better of it, settling on watching her body as she moved around the dining area.  When she brought him the check, she smiled broadly at him and told him she would take payment when he was ready.

Panic struck him like a slap in the face as he read the total.  He had heard that airport food was expensive, but he didn’t know they used the money to purchase new planes.  He was looking at half a day’s wages.  His body relaxed, remembering that he had Mike’s credit cards on him.  He opened the wallet and his eyes grew wide.  He counted six credit cards, all of them gold or platinum varieties.  Head bobbing and whistling a bit, he placed one of the cards on top of the check.  The waitress took them and returned moments later for his signature.  Jimmy added in a healthy tip and scribbled something resembling Mike’s name across the bottom.

He walked a little taller as he left the restaurant.  Having money felt good, gave him a sense of power similar to what he had felt after killing Mike.  Considering the trip he had to make, he was filled with the confidence to make things happen.  Everything would be okay.

He checked his watch.  The day was passing quickly.  It would soon be time to board his flight.  He located and took his place in line at the airline counter and followed the flow of travelers as they made their slow progress to the two employees working there.  One of them was a man in his late twenties that smiled dutifully at each customer.  As an actor, Jimmy could spot a fake smile a mile away and that was what this man was wearing.  Even the tone of his voice was a dead give-a-way.  The young woman next to him looked much more natural as she flashed her teeth at each person in turn.  Jimmy found himself trying to calculate who would be helping him, hoping silently for the cute girl.

Reaching the front of the line, Jimmy realized that the girl had taken the person in front of him, suggesting the man would be helping him.  But the couple the man was working with seemed to be experiencing difficulties, starting with the fact that English was not their first language.  Jimmy stood mesmerized by the exchange between them when the man behind him tapped his shoulder.  Jimmy turned, expecting a badge to be shoved in his face.  Instead, the man simply pointed to the counter.  Turning back, Jimmy saw the cute girl beckoning him to her.  A small chill ran through his spine, much different from the one Mike had invoked with his dead, dull eyes.  There was no greater feeling than an attractive woman asking you to come closer.  A smile spread across his face like a bloom.

He approached the counter and handed Mike’s license and ticket to her.  He lowered and turned his head as she examined the documents.  She handed them back and he sighed audibly.

Are you all right, sir? she asked.

Yeah, he said.  Fine.

She smiled broadly and said, Luggage?

What?

Do you have any luggage to check? she clarified.

Oh, no, he said.  Business trip.

As if men on business trips didn’t have luggage.  He took in a deep breath and held it.  He expected an armed security guard or two to come drag him away kicking and screaming.  Instead, she cocked her head to one side and looked at him quizzically.

I mean, he said trying to think fast, something he was never good at.  I mean I’m only going to be there for a short meeting.  I’ll be on my way home tomorrow.  He patted the briefcase adding, I have everything I need right here.

She smiled again and gave him directions to the gate number for his flight.  Well out of her sight, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and to make sure his heart was still beating.  His audition was over, and tomorrow he must put on the performance of his life.

He again found himself in line as everyone was funneled through a security checkpoint.  Like cattle to the slaughter, the crowds were directed through three metal detectors. Reaching the front of the line, Jimmy emptied the contents of his pockets onto a plastic tray and lay the briefcase on the conveyor belt.  The transit authority employee directed him through the door-sized arch and he stepped forward. 

A loud beep sounded, and Jimmy’s heart jumped.  An employee on the other side of the metal detector pulled him to the side and commanded him to stand with his legs apart and his arms out to his side.  It reminded him of being frisked the night of his first encounter with Sarah.  The ecstasy of being with her had consumed him and he hadn’t realized he was speeding.  The odor of the pot he had smoked wafted through the open window and the cop had him out of the car, searched and sobriety tested faster than he could blink.  He had spent the rest of that night in lockup.

The transit employee waved a wand the length of his extremities and across his body.  The familiar sound sang out softly with each pass.  As the wand passed his waist, the sound intensified.  The employee looked up at him, Remove your belt, please.

Jimmy did as he was asked.  The employee took his belt and told him to step back through the metal detector.  This time no alarms sounded.  Relief flooded Jimmy’s body as he returned to the employee holding his belt.  She handed it to him, saying, You may want to remove that when you empty your pockets next time.

He nodded and guided the belt back through the loops of his pants, cinching it into place.  He stuffed his belongings back into his pockets, grabbed the briefcase, and walked away, glancing back to be sure he wasn’t being followed.  Usually relaxed and carefree, killing a man had made him paranoid and on edge.  It wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed and hoped it would pass soon but was convinced it wouldn’t.

He reached his gate and found a seat facing the window, looking out at the large,