The Summer I Died

CHAPTER 20

While Jamie cried, Butch whined and shot me a sad face as if to ask whether I could open the door for him. The dog had no manners. He gave up after a minute and went and lay near his dishes again, eyes glued to the door, his collar jingling against a piece of bone as he stretched out.

Dog collar.

Like a slap across the face something hit me. Something out of left field I had never noticed before. Butch was wearing a dog collar. I mean, I had noticed it all along, but it hadn’t meant anything before. It never registered. But dog collars had buckles, and one part of a buckle was the small arm. Small enough, say, to fit into a cuff lock?

I was still pretty sure I’d never pick the lock. Fuck, I was so drained I probably couldn’t do it with the key. But hope was still squatting in my brain, like a shit-faced drunk in an empty Beverly Hills estate, stretched out on the wraparound couch drinking fine aged bourbon, feet up on the wall, scratching his ass with a priceless antique rapier. In control is what I’m getting at. Making it impossible to sit still.

From above me I heard Skinny Man banging pots and pans, stomping across the floor and then back again. Slowly, Butch looked up too, like he’d seen this movie before but couldn’t find anything better to watch.

“C’mere, Butch,” I said. He turned his attention to me, tilted his head. “C’mere, I won’t hurt you.” Not now anyway, I wouldn’t, but like Skinny Man said, good things come to those who wait.

“C’mon, you stupid fucking mutt, c’mere so I can pet you. C’mon.”

I whistled a bit to entice him, but I think he had learned not to approach me carefree. Still, he looked interested, and if I could only lure him over. Perhaps what was needed was incentive. My leg was still coated in flaky blood, the wound was itchy and red and a couple of the tooth marks were moist with puss. I shook it like an elderly stripper auditioning for a Vegas review, and Butch finally stood up. He padded over and sniffed the leg and I reached for his neck, but he was out of range. Shit. The leg idea was working against me. I’d only get bit, and Butch would get a free meal.

I had to get him near my hand. So I rubbed my wrist against the cuff, opening the cut I had inflicted earlier. The pain shot up my arm like electricity and burned my insides. My teeth felt like they were being scratched with a file. It was so bad I almost stopped before I drew blood, but I forged on thinking of the larger picture. I needed to save Jamie, I needed to get free and call the police. I missed my parents. Tooth was dead. Jamie was butchered. So much blood.

No, I thought, don’t ride that train. Stay focused.

As hard as I fought though, that train began running away, the images filling my head like too many people cramming into an elevator. Jamie tortured, Tooth’s jaw on the floor. Oh God, no, don’t lose it, don’t think about it. There is no Jamie, no Tooth, nothing other than the chains on your wrists and the collar on the dog. Rub the wrist. Harder. Pain equals freedom.

The first drop of red hit the floor with a light plop and was eaten by the dirt. But Butch could smell it. Immediately he came over and put his nose against the cut, sniffed enthusiastically, and started licking the blood as it came out. To keep him where I wanted him I smeared some of the blood on my hip. He licked it off my shorts, and maybe decided it must be coming from there because he kept on licking until I could feel his saliva against my skin. With my hand on his head, I moved him closer with my fingers until I could grab the collar. The buckle was under his head, so I spun it up onto the back of his neck and got a good grip on it. Frantically, I worked my fingers to unclasp it. It wasn’t easy. My thumb pushed the flap backward into the buckle, but it would only go so far before the eyelets stopped it and it bunched up. The difficult process was further compounded by the dog’s inability to keep its head still as it licked.

“Stay still, will ya.”

Dust was falling from the ceiling. Above me, the man walked toward the stairs. The collar was bunched up again. The footsteps got closer, they were coming fast. Butch moved his head but I grabbed the collar and yanked him back.

“You move again I will kill you so slowly you’ll think the world’s rewinding. Now stay still!”

I worked the flap backwards once again and slipped a finger under the loop that formed. Triumphantly, the arm came out of the eyelet. No sooner had it freed than Skinny Man was back at the top of the stairs. I ripped at the collar and the whole thing came loose. Skinny Man came down the steps, yelling something. I almost took the collar but knew he’d see me so I left it dangling around Butch’s neck.

“Knew I’d find it sooner or later,” he said. He held up a jug of bleach, unscrewed the cap. “Gotta be careful with this stuff, it can burn something awful.” He shook the jug at me and a stream of bleach leapt out and hit the dirt in front of me. I pressed back into the wall. When it hit the floor it smoked a bit, and I thought, bleach doesn’t smoke. Whatever he’s got in there it ain’t bleach, it’s something much worse.

“Shit,” he said, and flung his fingers about. He’d spilled some on himself and I smiled watching him try and wipe it off. “What are you laughing at? You still thirsty, Roger? How’s about a drink.”

“No thanks.” Not that drink anyway. Real water, yes. Absolutely. Thirsty did not begin to describe the anguish my body was experiencing from the lack of food and water.

“Oh, now you don’t want my hospitality. You sure are ungrateful, aren’t ya? Snooping around people’s yards, asking for favors and then showing no appreciation, stealing my tools.”

He came over and ran his hands around my pockets, behind my back. I thanked God I had left the collar on Butch. The dog stepped aside quietly and sat near the boiler. His collar hung down on the sides of his neck, but Skinny Man didn’t notice.

Still bare-assed, Skinny Man went over to the door to the back room. “I’m gonna have fun with you real soon, teach you some manners. But first there’s a sweet little girl needs my attention.”

He put his ear against the door and listened. Jamie had never stopped crying completely, alternating between moans and sobs. He looked like he was going to push the door open, his hand on the knob, but instead he backed up and returned to me.

With a skeptic look he said, “I gotta know.”

Bending over so that his backbone poked through his skin, he scooped up the dice, looked at me like I had a small animal sticking out of my ear and then dropped them straight down toward his feet. They bounced a few times and came up nine. He didn’t say anything, just glared and worked his jaw on some imaginary cud. It wasn’t just anger; I could see fear in his eye as well. He was afraid of me, or rather, what he thought I might be. And I was afraid too. It hadn’t been lost on me one bit the fact that my number had never come up, not once. Earlier, when I thought about the dice, I thought maybe there was a reason behind it, like maybe I had a purpose for being here. But even then deep down I feared it was luck or coincidence.

Now I was starting to believe it was something else. Why hadn’t my number come up yet? What was expected of me? How much credibility was there to an old drunk’s preachings? Destiny, purpose, fate. Who was I to the world? Just a stoned comic book lover who couldn’t get his dick wet. But the dice. . Wrong place, wrong time? Or was I supposed to be here?

It scared the shit out of me.

Skinny Man stormed off into the other room without so much as a grunt and slammed the door shut. I heard him yell at Jamie with renewed vigor. Jamie shrieked and called for God but then the shriek became a gurgling, choking soundtrack of hell. Oh man, I felt it once more, the terror of the moment. I got the shaking feeling, the loss of breath. I fought it harder than ever before because I now had this crazy idea that I was being chosen for something. I concentrated on me, on the collar I needed.

“Butch, come over here, boy.”

Jamie was gurgling, screaming, the repeated thumps most likely her body flailing from acid burns.

I rubbed my wrist again, drew more blood, and that got Butch real interested in me again. As soon as he got close enough I snatched the collar and looked at the small arm of the buckle and compared it to the keyhole.

They looked close.

Remembering Butch’s distaste for my spit, I coughed up a chunk of innard and spewed it at him. It hit him in the back, completely off target, but enough to send him away for a moment. Twisting my hand around I barely was able to get the buckle arm near the hole. My wrist bent forward like a cripple and the cuff threatened to rip it open further, but the “key” was getting closer. I wiggled the buckle until it poked into the hole.

It was too big.

I went flaccid, sort of hung by the chain around my neck and felt all hope ooze out of my body. It was over, I would never escape-I would die here. I would watch my friend and sister die bit by agonizing bit, then I would die too. Fate meant nothing; it was all a sick joke.

Skinny Man kicked open the door and hurled the empty jug at me. It hit my shoulder and rebounded toward the stove where it came to stay. My muscles locked as I waited for the burning liquid to eat through my skin, but it never came-the jug was completely empty. As I flinched, I put the collar behind me like I had done the spike, expecting him to come take it and go for my ears. But he didn’t see me hide it. Luck again, or fate?

From the open door, an inhuman wheeze meandered into the room. It was the sound of someone’s last breaths.

Skinny Man still looked afraid. There was no satisfaction on his face like before. Why didn’t he just have at me, forget this whole game he was playing with the dice? Clearly his mind was working overtime, he wasn’t in control anymore. What was the old saying? Making monsters out of shadows? His imagination was becoming his worst enemy; he was believing the lie. Motioning for Butch to follow, he turned off the bulb and went up the stairs without a word. A minute later he came back with his keys and locked the basement door. Once that was done, he returned to his home above, but not before he locked the door at the top of the stairs as well. He was afraid of something.

Alone in the pitch-black of my cell, while the flies gorged themselves on the littered remains of my late friend, I listened to the wet wheezes coming from the room behind me. He left that door open.

On purpose.