Buffalo jump

CHAPTER 42

Buffalo: Friday, June 30

Rich Leckie watched through a gap in the curtains as his wife and daughter left the house. He flinched when the front door slammed, even though he knew it meant someone going out, not coming in. He watched as they got into the car, watched Leora back out of the driveway onto the street, not paying attention as usual, forcing an eastbound driver to swerve around her back end, flashing a finger and blasting his horn.

And finally they were gone. He was alone, thank God. He was on his way back to bed when a dark thought crept into his mind: Leora hadn’t locked up behind her. The new deadbolt hadn’t turned. It made a distinctive click and he hadn’t heard it. Panic rose up in him. He felt like rats were crawling over his bare feet. He could hardly swallow his own spit. He had to go down and lock up but what if it was too late?

What if Ricky was already in?

No. It couldn’t be. Rich would have heard something. Footsteps. Old floorboards creaking. A high girlish laugh. The sound of a gun barrel slashing through the air. Of cartilage breaking.

He had to go downstairs now, before it was too late, and lock up. Stupid fat fucking Leora, putting him in a spot like this. Okay, she didn’t know about Ricky-he told her he had gotten mugged that night-but she knew better than to leave the door unlocked. This was still Buffalo, and hardly the best part. He tried to breathe through the panic but the best he could manage were shallow gasps. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon, settling for an African fertility statue Leora had bought four years before Leigh-Anne was conceived. Eighteen inches high and made of acacia, as good a club as he would find. Clutching the statue in his right hand, holding onto the banister with his left, he moved silently down the stairs. Halfway down, his bathrobe fell open and he cursed but couldn’t close it, afraid to let go of the banister or his club. As he neared the bottom of the stairs he paused-exposed, vulnerable, ridiculous with his shrivelled little turtle-head dick hanging there in a nest of grey hair-and listened with every ounce of concentration he could muster. He could hear the air conditioning unit humming away in the front room. The fridge rumbling in the kitchen. Water dripping-why couldn’t Leigh-Anne ever close the faucet all the way? But no footsteps, no laughter. No sound of a round being chambered. And then he could see the front door, saw that the deadbolt handle was horizontal, not vertical-locked, thank God-and he took the last step down, missed it and landed jarringly hard on his left heel. His knee hyperextended and slid forward, sending him hard onto his back, fertility statue still in hand.

Then came tears. They leaked out of his eyes at first, then fell in hot wet streams, his body shaking like he was having a seizure. He let go of the statue and pressed his fists to his eyes and curled up on the floor and held himself tight, rocking back and forth until there were no tears left. When he felt strong enough to stand he made his way into the kitchen where he blew his nose, then ran cold water into his cupped hands and gently washed his face. He sat down heavily at the kitchen table, flexing his knee gently and rubbing his tailbone.

I’ve lived a good enough life, he thought. Kept more or less to the straight and narrow. Did most of the things expected of me, other than make the big bucks. So what in God’s name did I ever do to deserve Ricky Messina?

He shuddered as the name entered his mind. The face, round and benevolent. He tried to banish Ricky from his mind but Ricky wouldn’t go.

Ricky dressed like a delivery man, with a gun at Amy’s head.

Ricky kicking him and breaking his nose.

Ricky shoving him into his car, driving him to Forest Lawn Cemetery.

Pulling off the road and yanking Rich out of the car, sending him stumbling into the darkness away from the lights along the road.

Ripping Rich’s pants down and bending him over a freezing cold gravestone.

Hurting him so badly. Making him do such vile things before leaving him bleeding, shaking, gagging on the ground.

“We understand each other now, don’t we?” Ricky had said. “You so much as call my name in your sleep, I’ll bring you back here and bury you alive.”

Rich knew he would never get the images out of his mind; he would never get the taste out of his mouth. What was the use in trying?

He thought about breakfast but had no appetite. He thought of getting dressed and going for a walk but it was too hot out. He wondered if he could make it to Barry and Amy’s tonight, or if it was better just to let Marty handle it.

He thought of the Buffalo River and the time he and Marty had plunged in on acid.

He thought again about going back to bed and wondered how many pills he had left.