Peter E. Vogel, Jr.
In a few hours I will be rid of her.
He grips the wheel and stares at the road ahead while she speaks, stopping only long enough to catch her breath. She has been talking for three hours straight, what her therapist has been telling her for the past two years. She tells him how proud she is of him, how brave he is to admit that he’s wrong. She tells him how she thought they were headed for divorce, that she thought of calling her lawyer to have him cut out, but now she’s glad she didn’t. She was right, and he was wrong, and isn’t it so wonderful that he finally sees things her way.
“Maybe there is a chance for us,” she says.
A chance in hell.
“It really is a beautiful day,” she says.
On this he agrees. The sun is breaking through the trees, and everywhere is radiant green. Every few feet the trees break just wide enough to offer a view of the mountains, remote and magnificent. The road is twisting and narrow, but the Jaguar takes the turns without complaint. She doesn’t know he’s been up this way before. He was here only a few days ago, while she was out at a fashion show. He looked the place over, and made his plan.
At first he had illusions that he would stage the perfect crime, but that notion faded quickly. There are no perfect crimes, he thinks, not of this sort, anyway. Not where money is involved and there is one obvious suspect. He might have tried to find a way to make it look like natural causes, but that requires medical knowledge, some subtle drug or poison. He doesn’t have the knowledge or the connections; at least no one he can trust.
No, it won’t be perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. It just has to keep them guessing for a few weeks. Just long enough to shuffle a fortune from one account to another, and disappear.
He sees the sign – “Golden Mountain Private Cabins” – and begins to slow down, but she points it out to him anyway. He swallows the growl in his throat.
“Oh yes, thank you dear,” he says.
This seems to satisfy her for the moment. He turns onto the gravel road that leads to the cabin, a private drive barely wide enough for two cars. The road winds up the forested western slope of the mountain, a pristine location more than a mile from the main lodge of the Golden Mountain Resort. He looks off to the left and stares down the steep slope. She tells him to be careful. He speeds up.
He drives for half a mile up the gravel road to reach the place. The road flattens out near the top of the hill, and they enter an open clearing, with four little cabins sitting around the edge. They are the gorgeous, she tells him, every one of them storybook perfect. Their friend David, the owner of the cabins, knows his business.
Unfortunately, they are rather flammable, these old cabins.
Outside of one, he sees a white Jeep. His throat grows tight.
David said we would be all alone up here. I specifically asked if we could be alone!
“Oh, I wonder who that is?” she wonders.
I thought you said it would be just the two of us. Go on, say it.
“I don’t know,” he replies.
He parks the car in front of their cabin, staring at the white jeep. The vehicle looks new, and it is quite obviously not what the caretaker would drive. There are water skis and rafting oars strapped to the roll bar, and a number of bags piled high in the back.
She tells him to unpack the bags, and asks for the key to the cabin. He nods and pops the trunk, all the while watching to see if the jeep’s owner will appear. He unpacks all the bags but one; he has hidden his tickets and all the important financial documents in a small suitcase, ready to depart ahead of schedule if the need arises.
Who the hell is that? David said the resort kept these cabins reserved. He said we would have it all to ourselves. Now how do I make this work? How am I supposed to do this with somebody right next door? C’mon, think, think!
He hears her calling from inside the cabin complaining about something and yells that he will be right there. He lifts half the bags and carries them into the cabin. The interior is done in natural wood, with a huge bed, a big stone mantle above the fireplace, and a fully stocked kitchen, prepared in advance of their arrival. She is in the bathroom, playing with the faucet. The water is brown, she says. Probably just rust, he tells her. She clicks her tongue. He promises to take a look at it, but can see she’s already blaming him. He stifles a reply, and goes out to retrieve the other bags.
There is another man outside, admiring the Jaguar, waiting for him. The other man is young, probably only twenty-five or so, blonde and big in the shoulders. He is dressed in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt. He looks like a male model; a manicured mountain man, with a chiseled chin and boyish face.
A witness that’s what he is. Damn, why now, why this weekend?
“Hey, cool car,” the stranger says in a subtle drawl. “I’m Bill, from over there. Heard you pull up.”
“Leonard Paulsen. A pleasure.” They shake hands. Bill’s grip is strong. “So, are you leaving, or just arriving?”
Bill shakes his head. “No, I’m here for the weekend, my girlfriend and me. She’s coming up after work.”
They talk for a few minutes about the Jaguar, and how beautiful the mountains are this time of year. Bill asks him if he does any kayaking or water skiing.
“No, no, nothing like that,” he replies.
He picks up the rest of the bags. Bill offers to help.
“No need, I’ve got everything.”
Bill glances at the extra suitcase, then shrugs and closes the trunk.
Who cares? Doesn’t mean anything. But Bill the Golden Boy is going to be up here all weekend with his girlfriend.
They say goodbye, and walk back to their cabins. He watches Bill leave, and wonders if the guy is really as strong as he appears.
Don’t be stupid, this won’t work. I can’t do it that’s all. I’ll have to wait; there will be other times. I have to cancel the wire transfers, and wait for another opportunity. Maybe a few more months. Just a few months of sucking up to that repulsive bitch. All this for nothing. All that shit I had to put up with, crawling like a whipped animal, giving every concession she asked for…
He coughs up a mouthful of stomach fluid, and swallows to clear the taste.
* * * * *
“Dinner is almost ready,” he says, without much emotion.
He has been working on the meal for two hours, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She closes her book and gets up off the bed, yawning. He sets out the wine. It is her favorite vintage, the first part of the romantic dinner he promised her weeks before. The candles are lit, the fire is bright, and everything is perfect.
Except for the damn witness.
She peers through the front window of the cabin, looking towards the light from across the clearing.
“That young man over there, did you find out if he was here with anyone?” she asks.
He sets out the utensils, and for a moment, imagines how easily a steak knife might fit into her back.
Don’t be stupid, don’t be stupid. Just get through this weekend. There will be another time.
“He has a girlfriend,” he replies. “She was supposed to come up here. Do you see her car?”
She peers out the window, still staring at the other cabin. “No,” she says.
“Well, David assured me we would have the area to ourselves.”
“Perhaps you should have spoken to him,” she says, her eyebrow raised. “He might have listened.”
The table is set, and the food will be ready in moments. He notices the fire is beginning to die down, and stokes the logs with the iron poker.
Now there’s a classic weapon. One wide swing to the head, a loud crack, and she goes down. I could set the cabin on fire . . . No. Golden boy would come running in to save her, and I’d never make it out of the country. Forget it. It’s not happening.
“Well, we had better get started,” he says. He goes into the kitchen to retrieve the corkscrew, and returns to find her sitting at the table, placing a napkin neatly across her lap. He reaches for the wine.
“Oh,” she says. She is frowning.
He knows that look too well. “What is it, darling?”
“Well dear, I know you were trying to do the right thing, getting my favorite, but didn’t you say champagne?”
He laughs, but there is no humor in it. “Well, I’m afraid we –
“You did say champagne before, didn’t you?” she says, her voice like an arctic wind. “I think I’m entitled to that. Don’t you agree?”
This corkscrew would look so lovely buried in your forehead, darling.
“Yes, I’m sorry I forgot that, darling. But we’re miles from any store that would have champagne. Not any that you would want to taste, anyway.”
Her face is stone. “Nonsense. I was talking to David just the other day, and he said the resort has all the best in stock back at the main lodge. You promised me champagne, Leonard.”
He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes. Blood rushes to his face, and his guts begin to churn.
“I can’t –”
“Did you say champagne?” She snaps. “Yes! Now if you’re serious about this marriage, you’ll drive down there right now and get a bottle. Or should we forget the whole thing and drive home?”
You don’t know how I want to kill you. I’d do it right now. I’d strangle you with that necklace I gave you, if I thought I could get away with it. I should strangle you and that son of a bitch over there, and just forget the money. Ah, but the money…
He looks down at his hands. They are quivering with rage. “I’ll get the champagne, darling. If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.”
He snatches up the keys his my way out, and storms out the front door of the cabin, slamming it behind him. The car starts easily, and he tears across the gravel, cursing her under his breath. As he pulls away, he sees Bill standing on the porch, hands in his pockets.
Probably heard the shouting.
He puts the high beams on, and speeds down the road. He thinks of the suitcase in the trunk, with the plane tickets locked inside. He takes the first curve sharply, and the tires reward him with a loud screech.
It would have worked. But not now. Hell, she’ll probably divorce me anyway. You can tell from the way she talked. She knows it’s the money. She’s probably calling the lawyer right now, telling them to cut me out. Vindictive bitch, always has been. I should have known something like this would happen, should have guessed it when she agreed to come up here. There has to be a way to pull this out.
Just before I reach the next set of curves, he notices the pedal feels loose beneath his foot. He presses harder, and it seems to lose all pressure.
No. I’m losing control. No no I’m losing it –
* * * * *
After a pleasant dinner, she calls the police. She tells them how her husband left to get some champagne, and has been gone a very long time. Two hours later, they show up at the cabin, and give her the news; Leonard ran off the road in his Jaguar, and was killed. She warned him not to drive so fast, she says. They tell her that she shouldn’t blame herself. She cries convincingly, and thanks them.
The funeral is well attended by her friends and family. She goes into seclusion in Europe, and grieves for a year –
– for propriety’s sake, darling.
Shortly after returning, she is romantically linked with a handsome male model named Billy Nelson.
It’s so romantic.