Vacations from Hell

“And Gerard came around to tell us that. Because he knew. Because he found her hand….”



“You saw the hand,” I said.



“I saw a hand. That was in Gerard’s bag.”



“Well, where do you think he got a hand?” I yelled. “They don’t sell them here. It’s not a kind of meat.”



“I don’t know where he got a hand! But he had a knife! And you said he attacked you!”



“I just told you I was lying!”



“Oh great!” she screamed. “That’s very helpful! Just be quiet a second. I need to think.”



The storm beat away at the shutters, clapping them against the side of the house, providing a horrible rhythm beneath our argument. The mumbles downstairs had stopped. Marylou sat on the edge of the bare mattress and put her head in her hands.



Then we heard the gunshot. And a thump. And nothing. So much adrenaline flooded my system, I felt like I could have broken down the door by running at it headfirst. Which is what I did. Run at it headfirst, I mean, while screaming Gerard’s name. Marylou grabbed me and held me back. She held hard too, clawing in with her nails and tossing me back on the bed.



“Charlie!” she screamed, getting in my face. “You are not going down there!”



“Did you hear that?” I yelled back. “He shot Gerard! I told you! Gerard was innocent! He was trying to help us!”



“I don’t know what’s going on, but we are staying in here!”



“Fine….” I said, backing off by crab-crawling backward on the bed. “Fine….”



She went back to the door to make sure it was secured. Now I knew what Gerard had been saying. There was no time to argue with Marylou. The only way I could get her out of danger was by knocking her out and dragging her out of here—because otherwise we would stay up here, and eventually Henri would come back up those steps with his gun. I looked around for something to hit her with. This was so much harder than you might think. The lamps looked like they would kill her; the hairbrush would just annoy her. It was like Goldilocks: too soft, too hard….



I finally saw a sleek DVD player much like the one downstairs (Henri really liked his DVDs). It was thin and looked light. While she was securing the door, I quietly pulled the cords loose from the wall and the back of the television with a rough tug. In protest the player spit out a disk. I pushed the drawer shut.



How would I do this? Gerard had said the jaw, but that didn’t make any sense. It had to be the back of the head.



I weighed the DVD player in my grip. One side felt hollow; the other seemed to contain all the parts. I turned it so the heavier side would be the one I would strike with. My hands were sweating. I wiped each one on my jeans. Marylou turned around.



“Charlie, what are you—”



I hit her across the face—a solid clunk against bone that reverberated through the DVD player. She staggered and screamed but didn’t fall. I’d bloodied her—I’m not sure from where. Probably the nose.



“Sorry,” I gasped.



I hit her again. On the back of the head as I’d originally intended. She lurched forward to tackle me, and I swung out one more time, baseball-bat style, swinging far back and bringing the player right under her chin with all my might. She dropped to the floor, a thin stream of blood flowing from her nose, cutting across her cheek in a thin stripe. I quickly checked to make sure she was still breathing, then I rolled her under the bed to hide her.



“Sorry,” I said again, pushing her as far as I could. I opened a drawer and pulled out some clothes, scattering them around the space to hide her as much as I could. This was bad camouflage, but I was making this up as I went and I defy you to do better if this ever happens to you.



I stayed on my hands and knees for a moment, catching my breath. There was no noise from downstairs. That seemed bad. But there was also no noise on the steps or outside the door.



Marylou had brought her bag with her. I slipped the pipe from it, as well as the knife. I held one in each hand, trying to figure out which one was best for the immediate job. The pipe, probably. I crept to the door and undid the lock. I stood for a moment, pipe ready, in case the knob turned and the door opened.



Nothing. Nothing but my heartbeat. Nothing but my own blood pumping so hard my arms shook.



I reached for the knob, holding it tight, then threw the door open. I did that move from police shows to get to the steps—the one where you jump into doorways ready to swing.



I heard a faint shuffle from downstairs. From the kitchen. Henri was still down there.