Between The Devil and The Deep Blue Sea

By James Gaffigan

In the World of BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA, a psychological thriller, the chaos is everywhere and the struggle against it is not always clearly understood by those involved. This struggle comes in fits and starts, sometimes comic, sometimes tragic, the characters meeting the challenge as they do mostly everything else in their chaotic lives -- they improvise, they make mistakes; they're making it up as they go along and thus, each have their own version of the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483508733

Book preview

Gaffigan

CHAPTER 1

It was warm for mid-October. The mild weather hung on tenaciously like the smattering of elderly couples who still insisted on their daily constitutionals along the boardwalk, despite 30 miles-per-hour wind gusts buffeting them from the ocean and eclectic assortment of characters they might encounter along the way. It was as if the seedy bohemian types lounging on the benches and the fitness folks in their snazzy get-ups and hard-wired to the beat of a different drummer via headphones didn’t exist… or the few hardy souls surfcasting down there in the roaring thunder of the waves for that matter.

The golden agers stubbornly clung to each other in the tangy salt air as they continued their journey together along the wooden-planked walkway. There was a younger couple on the boardwalk this afternoon and they too, strolled along arm-in-arm. She was in her forties, in sneakers and jeans, her brown hair blowing wild above the bandage above her forehead, burying her face in the turtleneck sweater and turned-up collar of the nylon jacket she wore.

He was in his mid-fifties, similarly attired to his companion and had the classic Roman nose. His curly hair was going silver and much of it missing on top, but that didn’t seem to bother him as he didn’t try to conceal the aging process with hair pieces or coloring. Besides, the neatly trimmed beard surrounding his round pleasant face had already turned silver and gave him a distinguished look. He might have been wise to cut back on his pasta intake, but nobody’s perfect and after what he had been through these last few years, it was a miracle he was still here at all. His stocky build and rolling gait suggested an opera singer or perhaps a foot soldier in Caesar’s legions.

Cries of gulls echoed in a leaden sky as these two walked together on this boardwalk which seemed to go on forever, stretching off toward the horizon. The woman withdrew her arm from the man’s as she stopped to lean against the railing.

Where am I? she asked, staring out at the waves as they thumped in on the sand not fifty yards away.

Long Beach, was the man’s wind-tossed reply.

What am I doing in California?

No, this is Long Beach, Long Island… you’re in New York.

She watched some sea gulls circling lazily high up in the sky, others hanging motionless nearby, suspended in the stiff breeze. What am I doing here? she asked, her apprehension rising.

You were a mugging victim on a street in Manhattan. Do you remember anything about that?

No, the woman answered. Look, is this some kind of joke?

The man smiled at her, thoughtfully stroking his beard as he replies, It might be. It all depends on your point of view. See, you didn’t just beam down here to Long Beach from the Starship Enterprise or anything like that – at least I hope you didn’t. You have a whole history behind you and every step you’ve taken along the way is what’s gotten you to the very spot you’re standing on. Each of us is on a journey through life that’s often treacherous and ambivalent, or worse. But it’s our own unique journey, and if we are willing to struggle and work hard – the point of view where it all makes sense finds us.

Pop psychology in a nutshell? she smirked. Looking away from him and staring out at the immensity of the wave-tossed sea, ashamed and hurting all over. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, it just slipped out. I don’t know where that came from.

‘Hey, that was great! he said, patting her arm. We got lucky. That was your gatekeeper or guardian, or whatever you want to call it popping out. He likes to stay in hiding, but he feels threatened under these unusual circumstances. He was forced to come out and reveal himself for a moment. I’ve met him before during the last few days."

Who am I? Why can’t I remember my own name?

Relax, relax, he soother her, looping his arm back in hers. It’ll be alright. You’ve had a nasty crack on the head… a brain concussion. It’s only a temporary loss of memory. It’s like somebody opened a window and the wind blew all your files all over the place. You’re files haven’t been lost, they’ve only been misplaced. You’ll start to sort things out and start to remember. Maybe in bits and pieces at first and not in the original order, but you’ll remember. You’ll see.

Who are you?

A motorist saw the mugging take place. By the time she managed to get there you were lying on the sidewalk unconscious and the muggers had taken off with whatever they could grab off you. Your head was bleeding. This good-Samaritan – who also had been a mugging victim – rushed you to the nearest hospital emergency room. You had no purse or any ID. The motorist found this card near your body and turned it in to the ER people. Do you recognize it? he said while handing it to her.

‘Haven House’, the card said. ‘Jed Marolla M. D., Director’. It was an old card, limp, creased and smudged with lipstick on one corner and some writing on the back in ball point pen which also didn’t register with the woman. Are you Jed Marolla? she asked as she held the card up to her nose and sniffed it. The faint traces of perfume were familiar, but who or what or when eluded her.

Yes, I am. That card is at least three years old.

How do you know that?

"Because that card has our old address on it, and it was three years ago that we lost the lease on our building in Manhattan and that’s when we looked around for a new home and relocated out here to Long Beach, which wasn’t an accident mind you; it was so we would be here for you when you arrived.

That’s us, over there, Jed said, pointing over toward a blue-domed squalid splendor – plaster patches damp and cracked. A stucco Gothic Moorish circus tent of a thing, looming up in a heap of 1920’s-era beach bungalow cottages and their Spanish tile roofs with the gulls circling around overhead in the salt-sprayed mist.

The cracker box modern apartment buildings were easy to spot. They had been slapped together and thrown up on speculation in great haste and profusion during the last boom, in an attempt to cash in on the condo market before it dried up. They stood out there now, mostly unoccupied, cheek-by-jowl and crowding the boardwalk – so many balconied beggars looking for a handout.

In a way, Jed continued. it was fortunate you ended up in the hospital emergency room when you did.

You mean, because of the blow on the head and the loss of blood.

They were glad to get rid of you, given the situation of central city emergency rooms these days. The telephone number on the old card is still linked to the new. We’re partly government funded and required to take so many referrals anyway. When the stabilized you and did the work-ups – that’s when they found the other things. None too soon I may dad.

What other things?

Well, for one thing, you’re a walking toxic waste dump. Did you know that?

No.

The blinding headaches and nausea and memory lapses you were experiencing before the mugging aren’t all from hangovers. You also have abnormally high levels of led and mercury. It will be interesting if we can find out how they came to be in your system.

I have no idea, she said tenderly touching the bandage on her forehead.

Then there is the drug and alcohol problem itself, said Jed.

How would I know about that, the woman said. I don’t have needle marks or a perforated septum – do I?

"There’s a history… signs of neurological and physiological damage from drug abuse. You’ve only been out here a few days and there are withdrawal symptoms already. You don’t deny that there is a problem – do you? That you have a dependency?

The woman glanced over at the blue-domed building. I am not an addict, she said. Is this one of those drug addict places?

Haven House is full of damaged goods – both clients and staff. We are all damaged people who have been brought into the world and raised by other damaged people. It’s only a matter of degree of dysfunction. Our approach is based on the premise that we are not born or raised in a vacuum. The family situation has a lot to do with how our personalities are formed and how we develop or fail to develop. Haven House can be your family for now.

The woman glanced down at the lipstick-smudged card. ‘Wait a minute. I’m remembering something… something about condos?"

Good, said Jed. "It can be fragments, images or sounds… anything at all. It can be something that sounds totally idiotic.

There’s a flash… a gunshot. Somebody gets their head blown off.

The mugging, the city streets – is there some connection there?

No, no, I don’t think so. Condos and a murder… only the murder didn’t take place in a condo. It was in a house high up on a hill somewhere… in the kitchen of the house. Could I be hallucinating?

Could be, Jed said. It’ll come to you… it’ll all get sorted out.

What’s the date?

October fifteenth.

She felt pain surging up behind her eyeballs. Something is just about to happen – or just did happen.

The sense of time is all jumbled up in your mind, said Jed. Relax and don’t try to fight it no matter what your gatekeeper does. Let it flow… whatever comes to mind.

Yes, the woman replied staring out at the mist-shrouded, turbulent ocean, it’s starting to come back to me.

CHAPTER 2

An image flashed in the darkness, a sound resounding down the corridors of her mind… something summoning her back from the depths of a drugged sleep. Her hand reached out instinctively, fumbling for the bedside lamp, knocking over a plastic bottle of pills instead, the hard little seeds raining down on the table top and scattering somewhere beyond her reach… as good as gone forever.

Her fingers found the lamp switch but she hesitated turning it on. She thought: someone may be watching the house out there in the darkness. A chilling thought and just what she needed, a touch of paranoia… something to cool her fevered brow and overheated body.

The luminous hands on the digital clock glowed five-fifteen a.m. as she struggled to get up. An empty wine bottle rolled off the bed and landed on the rug with a soft thud. That stuff too, eh? A little voice in her head seemed to say, must have been quite a party, my dear. She sat on the side of the bed in the darkness and tried to pull herself together and quell that nauseous sea-sick feeling rising in her gullet.

In the interludes between her own labored breathing, she could hear nothing but silence. A thunderous hangover announced its arrival – with all the symphonic splendor of a one-man band slipping on a banana peel – jarring and jangling, jittery and loud enough to wake the dead. It wouldn’t take a trained bloodhound to pick up the scent of her gasoline breath from lies away.

What the hell happened this time she fumed, clutching the sheet to her bosom, feebly attempting to distance from whatever had taken place…where had that seductive trolley car to oblivion dropped me off this time? She wondered.

Then the ultimate horror: who am I?

The alcohol-soaked synapses of her brain impaired, seizing for a moment, yet trying to function despite the gaps in the system - her heart going into fibrillation – rocking-and-rolling and threatening to jump right out of her chest. Pain pulsing in the temples beneath her tousled hair, she was suddenly overcome by the awesome task which lay ahead. Was there enough Krazy Glue in the whole wide world to put this Humpty Dumpty back together again one more time and if so, why bother?

Then, something shadowy formed in the mist; a name, an identity coalescing out of the biochemical bilge water sloshing around in the brain case. Her name was Flo Lambert and she was in her own house. There – a core, a vector in the chaos… something to hang on to.

She was alone in the house… or was she?

This time the noise was distinct enough to penetrate the racket of her misery. It sounded like someone was downstairs.

The adrenalin kicked in and grounded her, overriding the fear immobilizing Flo and demanding action. Her breasts sore, her naked body felt flabby and vulnerable as she blindly stumbled across the cold dark bedroom. Flo found the sweatpants and the top where they had been discarded on the floor and struggled to get them on, confusing top for bottom and armholes for leg holes in the darkness. So, it was going to be deal time; when nothing comes easy, when nothing can be taken for granted, when nothing works the way it’s supposed to and when the smallest possible thing becomes a major production number.

Pray there is an intruder, Flo thought, the rage surging up in her gut like white-hot magma in a volcano about to explode. Given this premise, the logic was irrefutable… there were weapons downstairs. It was only a matter of getting to them. Quietly moving downstairs, she marveled at the balance and coordination of her own body, the legacy of discipline and the elegance of a panther, one fluid motion flowing down the stairs.

Flo took down Mort’s hunting rifle from over the fireplace, found ammunition in a drawer and while loading the weapon, again though she heard noises. Were they footfalls or only the wind in the trees? She couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was only her frayed nerves finally snapping, or maybe this is how it was when people started losing their minds.

The false dawn’s feeble light insinuated itself through billowing window curtains, familiar objects emerging from the darkness… distorted time and distance… suggesting shapes and outlines… faded memories of happier days. Last Christmastime, the happiness and hope of that holiday season … faint whispers, delicate little translucent birds fluttering through the rooms… the house crowded and noisy with people and music, everybody helping to decorate a giant, freshly cut pine tree all stiff and robust, an aura of the wintry outside still clinging to it.

The scent of the fresh pine radiating out and quickly enveloping the rooms… and there was Gloria, as bright and shiny as a new penny. Released from the rehab a little early to be home with her family for the holiday season, the thrilled mother watched her proud, precocious daughter so eagerly joining in with the others… helping out with stringing the garlands; lanky and lean, looking clear-eyed and having a wonderful time.

No, her mother didn’t have to worry about Gloria’s sick way of demanding attention – dropping something or spilling something and throwing a tantrum… then stalking off to her room to do some drugs once she had set up the premise. No, not tonight… and when Flo started to realize this, herself, she started to relax, knowing that she didn’t have to worry about drinking too much that night. There simply wasn’t enough time and everybody was having too much fun… and so many surprises. Why, will wonders never cease as there was Gloria, dropping tinsel on the head of Logan Porter, the dour legal eagle actually laughing and loosening up a bit. Gloria was actually flirting with a boy? This was unthinkable only a few months ago.

Mort was looking happy and pleased at how the evening was going, but also wary and looking worn out from too much traveling, too many relocations and new starts and too much riding on this latest deal Yet when they all joined hands to sing the old Yuletide carols, Flo’s heart swelled up with hope and a tear came to her eye. This time, she thought, maybe this time it will be a new beginning and everything will turn out all right.

The stench coming from the kitchen got Flo’s attention… distinctive yet unfamiliar; there was a tainted quality about it: something between rotten fruit and bad meat. Flo made her way through the dim maze of the house’s interior with the loaded rifle cradled in the crook of her arm as if it were a sleeping baby.

The kitchen floor felt sticky and viscous underfoot, as the pair of old tennis shoes she was wearing squeaked and squealed as Flo, mindful of what she carried in her arm, pivoted and felt along the wall with her free hand for the switch plate. A feeling of forbidden came over her, a dreadful déjà vu. Do I really want to know this, she thought? She flipped up the switch and the room was bathed in a cheery, fluorescent glow.

An assemblage of bottles was revealed, overwhelming her with their number, variety and disarray. She recognized most of them, remembered purchasing most of them – but not like this, not all at once and after the fact – but in another context; for they had accumulated here in the kitchen by ones and twos, even by six-packs and the random case or two. It didn’t seem possible to Flo that she could have possibly consumed all of this by herself… it wasn’t her style. Occasional social dinking yes, and especially since everything had started to unravel and nothing could be counted on – least of all her husband and daughter – Flo had made it a point to cut down on alcohol and when the pain got too bad, to use tranquilizers instead.

Now this, another deal yes, but undeniable; she remembered times of not remembering recently, blackouts, blank spaces on the memory tapes. Right now, standing stunned and agape in her own kitchen at five-thirty in the morning, Flo didn’t honestly know what day of the week it was or even the month.

The cause seemed to be right there in front of her, a caravan of forgetfulness spread out along the counter top, unclaimed on the window sills, abandoned on top of the refrigerator, tossed in the sink, let loose to slip down and roll along the floor. Then the vapors of her gasoline breath reminded Flo that was how she dived for cover in the first place – wasn’t it? A temporary patch on a bleeding wound, and the wound not heeling but getting worse and the treatment turning into a nightmare, as healing became hiding out from life and ailing and flailing about helplessly… and feeling doomed because nothing mattered and nothing worked anyway. The death wish and the rage to live locked in stalemate, holed up here in Echo Pass, in a alcoholic haze while those two forces fought it out; playing the victim to the hilt, the axis of her existence precariously balanced on that pipeline to the liquor store… and starting to succeed in annihilating time… and it didn’t take a visionary to figure out what came next.

The enormity of the binge, the futility of these escapades traumatized her… trembling there in the stench and squalor if she still had a yen, any inclination at all; if she wanted to catch a buzz or get ripped, there was still lots to choose from and nothing holding her back; beer, wine, liquor; by the pint, by the quart, on their sides or standing up – anything not to have to be alone right now, thought Flo.

The rifle’s barrel felt smooth in her hand and yet, it felt like a violation, a betrayal at the same time. Did it work? When was the last time it had been used and cleaned? Flo sagged into a kitchen chair. How could that son-of-a-bitch do this to me – just disappear and leave me here alone like this?

Was that the porch creaking… the same familiar sound that used to tell her that Mort or Gloria was home? Flo glanced at the door. There might not be time for the rifle – lifting, aiming and pulling the trigger – was the safety catch on? It was all getting very complicated just thinking about it… the simplicity of the knife’s blade drew her to the cutlery drawer. Smoothly, silently the drawer slid open and it was in her hand – and exquisitely honed, stainless-steel blade almost seven inches long.

No time to think as her intuition told her there was something lurking outside the door. She dropped the knife and squeezed the trigger!

A jagged whit dragon’s tongue of flame lashed out at the door and in that same instant, the rifle butt slammed back into Flo’s pelvis, knocking her backwards and then there was silence… the scent of eau de cordite hanging in the air, the rifle shot still ringing in her ears and she was stunned by the weapon’s ferocity and finality.

Electrifying! In that one instant it was all there for her to see, illuminated in a dazzling light… as if a powerful searchlight had been switched on, shining into her mind’s dark interior and revealing everything so vividly for one terrifying moment… and then it was gone, slipping away from her as suddenly as it had come, the doppelganger lingering on briefly, then that too, disintegrating before her eyes.

CHAPTER 3

Gus Blatt speaking, who is this?

It’s Mort, Mort Lambert.

Sure doesn’t sound like you, Mr. Lambert.

I’m using an artificial larynx, Gus. It’s a small electronic device that you hold up to your throat and it amplifies.

I’m familiar with the technology, Mr. Lambert. So it’s gotten as bad as that?

Creeping paralysis… my body is a battleground, Gus.

What do the doctors say?

I don’t need any doctors to tell me what I already know.

So, still toughing it out on your own, Mr. Lambert?

"Gus… my wife has been slowly poisoning me… I’ve been trying to tell you this for months. I mean, here is this healthy, vigorous man, who starts having to use a cane to hold his balance - then crutches – then is reduced to a wheelchair to get around… all of this happening in a short period of time.

"And you still think its mercury poisoning? Or led poisoning… or some exotic concoction she’s come up with on her own. Oh, she’s been very clever about it. Everybody knows the water supply in this part of the Colorado Rockies has traces of heavy metals in it to begin with. Sir, that’s an understatement. Isn’t the bad environmentalist press what really killed your resort development project?"

The Echo Pass project isn’t dead, Gus… it’s only on hold. The collapse of the junk-bond market wrecked the initial financing, but it’s only a temporary setback.

And you really think the soil samples from the site and all of the bad publicity which followed had nothing to do with your investors pulling out?

Of course it didn’t help, Gus… I’m not denying that. But it was the bad timing of the offering, anyway, with the market getting jittery just at that time. Forget about jittery investors, Gus… consider the site, the raw real estate. The package I’ve assembled is going to be a goldmine… the deal just has to be reconstructed… if I have enough time, that is.

So, you still think your wife is out to get you?

I don’t think so, Gus, I know she is.

Why?

Why anything… Gus. With all the pressure we’ve been under with this development deal she might have just snapped. I can see it all clearly now. I started getting muscle cramps, nausea, these blinding headaches and I’m thinking, it’s all just from the stress I’m under. Then, I start having trouble with balance… I can’t even hold a cup. I don’t pay attention to the warning signs and all the time it’s Flo, doing me in.

Mr. Lambert, if you think that’s what’s happening to you then you should file a complaint with the police.

And have months of investigation? I may not have that much time left. My wife has been very clever about this; slipping me extra doses of the poison in my food and drinks; not too much… not too quickly. She’s been very subtle in her attempt to murder me, Gus. The damage may have already been done – don’t you see? She can just let nature take its course. I’m sure she has destroyed all the evidence… and to bring in expert medical testimony to prove the evidence of what she has done could be countered by other equally expert medical testimony hired by her refuting the whole thing.

What is your situation right now Mr. Lambert?

My daughter, Gloria, helped get me out of the house, so I’m safe for the moment, and we’re working on an antidote.

What do you want me to do Mort?

Gus, you’ve been my eyes and ears, my strong right arm for almost twenty years. I want you to make it look like an accident… do you know what I’m saying, Gus?

Yes, sir I do.

I don’t want her to feel any pain, or suffer the way she’s made me suffer. I wouldn’t wish that on a dog.

Sunrise was rolling west, approaching the axis of Fort Collins/Denver/Colorado Springs/Pueblo. In the remote mountain country it was forty-two degrees as the solitary runner scampered along the ridge, a speck, a silhouette against the majesty and splendor of the mountain peaks towering above her, the morning air astringent with aspen and spruce, the fragile beauty of the environment mirrored in the runner.

Flo had nothing left… she was running on empty, oxygen-starved lungs seared with pain, propelled onward only by an impulse gone awry… the rage to live and the urge to die running neck-and-neck.

When she had burst out the door and taken up chase of her phantom intruder, the old main pump started bouncing around wildly in her rib cage like a tennis ball in a clothes hamper – with the systolic and diastolic colliding and getting tangled up instead of complimenting each other. With each stride lengthening, Achilles’ tendons being stretched out further and threatening to snap right off at the heels, Flo disoriented and confused: was it to be fight or flight. Was she pursing an intruder or seeking escape?

Nothing looked out of the ordinary to her as the tranquil landscape rolled by. The intruder – if there was one – was part of the nightmare back there. All Flo knew was the further she was from that house at the moment, the better she felt.

She had been at it for almost an hour now, aware of the pain of her bruised pelvis yet overlooked it like the weight of an unborn child she carried as she ran along, seeking solace in the familiar, relentlessly covering each switchback of the mountain road - not as a woman on a mission with something to prove - but with ego subsumed in the process, gladly embracing anonymity. Simply another