Strings

  STRINGS

  Allison M. Dickson

  Copyright 2017 Allison M. Dickson

  Published by Local Hero Press

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book, its contents, and its characters are the sole property of Allison M. Dickson. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without written, express permission from the author. To do so without permission is punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Cover art by Jeff Fielder

  Book design by Local Hero Press, LLC

  Books From Local Hero Press

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  Strings

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  Troubleshooters

  Collections

  The Good Fight

  The Good Fight 2: Villains

  The Good Fight 3: Sidekicks

  Caped

  High Contrast

  Muddy Creek Tales

  Nonfiction

  Action! Writing Better Action Using Cinematic Techniques

  All titles and more available wherever books and ebooks are sold.

  Table of Contents

  Junior

  Chapter 1: Nina’s Last Trick

  Chapter 2: Ramón Takes a Detour

  Chapter 3: Madam’s Family Ties

  Chapter 4: Nina and Junior

  Chapter 5: Ramón and the Derringer

  Chapter 6: Madam’s Punishment

  Chapter 7: Nina and the Woman in Red

  Chapter 8: Ramón’s Bond

  Chapter 9: Madam Makes an Ally

  Chapter 10: Nina’s Passenger

  Chapter 11: Ramón in the Nile

  Chapter 12: Madam in the Mirror

  Chapter 13: Nina’s Lesson in Purity

  Chapter 14: The Ballad of Jenkins

  Chapter 15: Ramón and the Honey Trap

  Chapter 16: Madam Sacrifices Her Queen

  Chapter 17: Nina’s Declaration

  Chapter 18: Ramón and the Madam

  Chapter 19: Madam and the Good Girls

  Chapter 20: Nina Sheds Her Burden

  Chapter 21: Ramón in the Meadows

  Chapter 22: Madam in the Boathouse

  Dedication

  For Kate and Kirstin, my favorite twisted sisters

  A Note from the Author

  This is a Second Edition release of STRINGS, but the most dramatic changes are external. New publisher, new cover. The story inside, however, is largely untouched at the advice of my brain trust who warned me not to go all George Lucas on it. Let’s just say that while I wish the man had left his creation alone, I can totally sympathize with his itchy edit finger, and the desire to apply new knowledge to old work. Though I exerted complete self-control in that department, I couldn’t let things slide by without a little clean-up. Think of it as a slight remaster. A little tightening here, some extra shading and contouring of the language there, the final zapping of a few errors the original editors missed (if you still find more, I assume total responsibility). All the horrors remain intact. Rest assured. Preferably with a night light.

  JUNIOR

  Lady Ballas stroked her pregnant belly as she stirred Hank’s dinner, hoping the smell of beef stew would finally draw her husband out of his study. He had been cooped up in there two weeks now. Not his worst streak yet, but certainly his second-worst. Only once in those fourteen days had he opened the door to snatch one of the dozens of food trays she left out in the hallway. She brought up five trays a day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and two snacks, and all of it had gone to waste except one lone meal, a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. She could imagine the amount of agony he’d gone through convincing himself to take it, not only to expose himself to the “bad air” outside his refuge, but also to eat food that had been swimming in it, if only so he wouldn’t starve to death. He had enough self-preservation left to override the madness eating away at him like a child slowly licking the icing off a cupcake.

  Two Sundays ago, she’d been making their breakfast when she heard his heavy maple study door slam shut upstairs. She didn’t stop cooking or even flinch. All the signs of Hank’s latest meltdown had been there for the last week. They were difficult to miss after twelve years of marriage. It always started with the constant washing of his hands until his knuckles bled and the pads of his fingers cracked open. Then the size of the laundry piles would grow from small hills into mountains as he made frequent clothing changes—six, sometimes seven, different suits and shirts and pairs of socks and underwear a day. He would also spend longer spells working from home instead of going into his office at the new Twin Towers in Manhattan. She could hear him wearing a faded path onto the heavy Oriental rug as he paced back and forth, barking orders either into the phone or just to himself, which never failed to chill her bones.

  There were subtler signs too, like the way his eyes flitted around the room while he spoke to her, as if he were chasing an invisible fly, or the agitation in his voice when she asked if he might like to join her on an afternoon walk and get a little fresh air. All those clues and more would build up day after day like the crescendo of a dreadful symphony until it reached its final note, the percussive slam of that study door. Silence would then flood their big, empty house and she would settle down to spend the next several days living in a void, alone but for the errant kicks and tumbles of her unborn child as she rocked herself to sleep in the newly furnished nursery.

  The reasons for Hank’s spells were a little unclear, but Lady sometimes thought they coincided with the state of the markets. Even though she didn’t consider herself an expert in investments, at least to her husband’s degree, she knew enough. Her father taught her how to read the stock pages and the quarterly bank statements that came in the mail when she was a girl, and she’d completed her business degree in college before settling down with Hank. Her husband didn’t share a lot of information about their finances, but she knew their little trading company
was chugging along just fine at the moment. She had a feeling this particular spell, the worst yet, was due to something a bit closer to home, and it gave her a hard kick right now to remind her of its presence. She patted her swollen belly, which she rubbed with cocoa butter every night before bed.

  “There there, little one. All is well.”

  The baby would be here in just a month or so, and though Hank was terrified, though he would never say those words aloud. It wasn’t just the worry that their child would inherit the worst traits of his parents, a fear all potential fathers and mothers harbor deep down. He was also concerned with all the urine, feces, vomit, and slobber babies brought with them. In Hank’s ill mind, his once peaceful and immaculate abode was about to become a toxic landfill. Lady was prepared for this and had hired the perfect nanny to assist her, a gorgeous Indian woman named Kali, who came highly recommended by Dante Cassini, one of Hank’s closest friends. She’d served as the Cassini nanny for a number of years and remained close with the family even after their children grew up. Although Lady had always been a little afraid of Dante, and wasn’t so easy to leap on his endorsement of a nanny, she had to admit that Kali exuded a sense of maternal peace and professionalism. After meeting with several candidates throughout the week, Kali was the only one who seemed most prepared for the task, who would treat their baby like a prince, or a princess if Lady’s deep intuition about having a son was wrong.

  Despite the strong endorsement from Dante and Lady’s own desire to hire the woman, Hank grew hesitant at the last minute and tried to squash the idea, claiming he didn’t like the idea of someone else coming to live in their home. “You can do just fine on your own, darling,” he’d said. “Millions and millions of women around the world raise their children without nannies. I have complete faith in you.”

  Lady refused to budge. It wasn’t just about having everyday help with the baby. She needed someone who could take the reins when her husband decided to lose his mind again. The more she thought about his thoughtlessness, the angrier she became. “You either allow this woman to help me, or you hire someone to help you. Otherwise, I will take the baby to my father’s and raise him there with help from the maids.”

  She knew that would hit a soft spot. Hank and Daddy despised each other. Daddy considered him a weak product of new money and liberal sensibilities, and every time they got together for holidays and other family gatherings, the two of them would trade barbs on everything from investment advice to politics. When Lady’s mother was still alive, they were mostly civil to one another, but now the masks and the gloves were off, and the two men engaged in feisty debates that drained any sense of warmth and goodwill from the room. No doubt if Lady did leave Hank and returned home with the baby, he would waste no time gloating about it. She didn’t want that. She loved her husband and wanted to remain with him. But things would have to change when the baby came.

  Having realized his wife meant business, Hank nodded. “All right then, dear. We will hire this woman. But she doesn’t come within a hundred feet of that study when I’m in it. You tell her I have bad migraines and I can’t be disturbed. Is that clear?”

  She considered it a fair compromise. Lady imagined a few months from now, the four of them would make for a happy little family, with Kali fitting in like the perfect missing piece.

  After removing the rolls from the oven, she gingerly placed two of them on a plate with a pat of butter on top of each. Then she ladled out a large bowl of the stew, added a flourish of freshly chopped herbs, and set it on the tray beside the bread. Next to that she added a tall glass of milk, a tumbler of iced tea with mint, and a wedge of the apple pie she’d baked earlier that morning. The sight of the meal, Hank’s favorite since the first days of their marriage, made her own stomach gurgle, and she hoped it would work this time. It was normally her ace in the hole, the one that coaxed him to emerge most often, but when she’d put it out for him last week, it didn’t work. It had been too soon. She’d acted hastily, but it was with good reason. What if the baby came early? If he missed the birth of his child over this germ nonsense, she would be most displeased. She needed him to be her rock.

  The stew would work now. She was sure of it. Men were like dowsing rods for food. It just took the right meal at the right time.

  Careful to balance the heavy tray with her already off-kilter center of gravity, she carried it from the kitchen, down the long hallway, and up the winding staircase leading to Hank’s study, second door on the right. The climb was arduous for a woman in her condition, but being her husband’s part-time nursemaid kept her in good shape. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, she would carry fresh food up and then later in the evening, she would return that same food, cold and congealed, to the kitchen in which she’d cooked it. Along with each morning meal, she left him a fresh pitcher of wash water with a basin, an unopened bar of soap, a new toothbrush with baking soda, and a razor with shave cream. She couldn’t bear the idea of her husband growing filthy, even though that’s what he did every time he locked himself away, convinced his own waste was better than the germs outside. Hank would rationalize that even the hygiene products were contaminated somehow, just like the food. Long ago, before she knew better, she tried reasoning with him that if the air and the food and everything else outside his study were poisoned, she would be dead by now, but he had an answer for that too: “You weren’t born defective like me, Lady. My skin lets all the bad things in.”

  They’d been through half a dozen doctors, all the latest and greatest in medications and psychotherapy, including shock therapy, and nothing could shake him of this faulty thinking. The medications he’d tried left him nearly comatose and unable to work. He even attempted hypnosis a few times. Eventually, he stopped all treatment and swore off all doctors and psychiatrists as quacks. The episodes soon increased in frequency and severity. His long absences from the office began to have an effect. Earlier this year, Hank came in from work furious, claiming to have heard whispers of nervous breakdowns, mania, and alcoholism. He blamed the other help around the house for starting the gossip, but Lady wasn’t too sure. Carla Sanchez, the housekeeper who came by twice a week, didn’t speak much English. Barton Oliver, their driver and groundskeeper, probably witnessed some of Hank’s odd behaviors, but he was a solitary older man who seemed too dignified for small talk. Lady nearly suggested that perhaps Hank was just feeling a little paranoid, but he would have blown up in a rage. He had never hit her, but he might someday if he continued to slip. If he did, Lady knew she would have to leave him for good.

  Lady set down the tray outside the door and knocked, her heart full of hope. “Hank? I made your favorite, darling. Beef stew.”

  No answer. He was likely asleep. He wouldn’t have energy for much else by this point. There was a series of ropes and pulleys strung around his office and their bedroom designed to help him move about when he was weak, and to assist Lady in moving him when he couldn’t do it himself. She listened for any telltale creaks of moving ropes, but heard nothing.

  She knocked again, this time a little harder, and proceeded to wait amid the other untouched trays she’d brought up this morning. One with an omelet turned to rubber, another with a now limp BLT sandwich and potato chips. And still the untouched soap and water. He probably smelled like a grave by now. Still no sign of life from inside the study. An ugly question wafted into her mind like the smell of skunk spray through an open window.

  What if he was dead in there? She didn’t want to answer, but she also couldn’t be naïve. Hank’s body couldn’t take much more of this kind of abuse. His last episode lasted nearly a month. When he finally came out, he was withered down to a pale husk. His heartbeat, weak and uncertain, reminded Lady of a terrified little bird, flutter-flutter-flutter. She’d been nearly three months pregnant at that point and still fighting awful morning sickness, but she worked feverishly to bring him around, first administering a tiny pill of nitroglycerin and then spending several painstaking hours giving hi
m sips of water and broth with a medicine dropper just to build him up to being able to eat tiny cracker crumbs. He’d also managed to form a pressure sore on his lower back, and it upset her so much she nearly gave up and called their doctor. Hank didn’t need light nursing. He needed a hospital and IV fluids, and someone who knew how to treat wounds. But Hank, who knew her better than anybody and could almost read her thoughts, grabbed her by the wrist with his bird-like talon of a hand. His eyes reminded her of eggs sizzling on a hot sidewalk.

  “No doctors. Remember our promise, Lady. Remember.”

  He squeezed her wrist until it hurt, and she finally gave away, realizing if he could still inflict physical pain, he might be stronger than his frailty suggested. He recovered eventually, but she told herself that was the last time she was going to let him have his way. They’d made a promise to see no more doctors about this, but promises were as brittle things. If he came out of the room this time in the same condition or worse, she was going to call the hospital and have them send an ambulance. She would give any permission necessary to have him committed as well. It wasn’t just that she was out of patience, but she was too damn unwieldy with this big belly of hers to be Super Nurse this time.

  She gave the door another knock, firmer this time. “Hank? Come on, now. At least grunt if you can hear me.” Lady pressed her ear to the door, trying to detect even the faintest movement or shuffle. Total silence. Another more pragmatic voice in her head spoke up. It could be a blessing, you know. Remember how he was the other day?

  Lady shuddered. Often, Hank would talk to himself while locked inside his study, but a few days ago, he wasn’t just talking. He was ranting. The obscenities that came out of his mouth were so bald and disgusting, Lady wondered if he’d been possessed by a devil. She’d only just approached the door when something hard hit it, making her jump. Go away, bitch! I’ll stab your cunt! She’d been so frozen to her spot with fear that when the door opened just a crack and something flew out, she was unable to dodge it. A bottle of his urine hit her in the chest. Worse than the feeling of her husband’s cold piss seeping into her dress and between her breasts was the feral look in his eyes. That hadn’t been her husband, she was certain. Her Hank never would have done something so . . . vile. Lady was only religious in the most casual sense, but after that, she retreated to her room and prayed anyway.