Do Unto Others Read online

  Jim Cornell used to believe in God.

  But when things went bad - his daughter getting cancer, his layoff from his well-paying job, the strain of his marriage - he began to have no use for God anymore.

  When Jim’s forced into a situation that will require his participation in another man’s murder, his faith will be tested. Because while Jim used to believe in God, he’d never given that much thought to the Devil.

  Now he’s going to have to. Because, like it or not, Jim is involved with people who have a deep religious faith, too.

  Jim is about to discover that where there is light, there must be darkness. There’s more than one kind of religious faith, and his is about to be put to the ultimate test.

  Praise for J. F. Gonzalez

  “In an era of horror fiction that's often reckless and overboard, Gonzalez brings intellect and a studied, consummate craft to the table, creating tales the right way: with deft characterization, riveting plotwork, and imagery sharper than a carpet razor. This is a rare type of writer indeed, tackling even hardcore and taboo subjects with brains and creative brawn. If you haven't heard of this guy yet, believe me, you will. It won't be long before Gonzalez is taking big bites out of the field of horror fiction” - Edward Lee, author of Ghouls, Incubi, and The Bighead.

  "J. F. Gonzalez is a writer to watch." - Bentley Little, Author of The Store.

  "One of my must-read authors" - The Horror Fiction Review

  "Gonzalez gives his audience what they crave in spades." - Cemetery Dance

  "J.F. Gonzalez is one of my favorite writers and I will gladly buy and quickly read anything he publishes." - Horror Drive-In

  "Forces the kind of visceral relationship between writer and reader that the best horror writing can produce." The New York Times Book Review

  "...places a great deal of personal responsibility onto the reader...It's not enough simply to ask why anyone would commit such horrors; we also have to wonder why we're so fascinated by the details." - Fangoria

  Table of Contents

  Do Unto Others

  Also by J. F. Gonzalez

  About J. F. Gonzalez

  Do Unto Others

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored into or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other means now known or yet to be invented) without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events and individuals is coincidental. This book is sold as is and neither the publisher, nor the author, will be responsible for any direct or consequential damages that may arise from the misuse of the information within.

  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 person. 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.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Do Unto Others © 2010 by J. F. Gonzalez

  Cover Illustration © 2010 by Daniele Serra

  All rights reserved

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9830265-3-2

  Midnight Library

  Lititz, PA

  Monday, 7 PM.

  “What’ll it be, ma’am?”

  “Scotch on the rocks, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Jim Cornell moved to the other side of the bar where the scotch was kept. He pulled a bottle of The Macallan off the shelf, extracted a glass from the overhanging compartment and set it on the counter. Then he opened the ice chest, scooped some ice in the glass, and filled it with scotch. He put a plastic stirrer in, pulled a napkin out of the dispenser, and moved back to the other end of the bar where the patron was waiting. He smiled as he placed the drink in front of her and she smiled back, her gray eyes penetrating and inviting. “That’ll be seven-fifty.”

  She laid a ten on the bar. “Keep the change,” she said, smiling invitingly.

  “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “How many times have I asked you to stop calling me ma’am? It makes me feel older than I am. I’m Julie. Not ma’am.” Her tone of voice was jovial, and Jim grinned. “How long have I been coming here, Jim?”

  “Longer than I’ve been working here,” Jim said. He met her gaze this time and she smiled at him. She was older, by how much he wasn’t sure, maybe enough to pass for his mother, but barely. Her dark hair was shoulder-length and swept back across her forehead stylishly, the streaks of gray slight and peppered within the fullness of it. Her features were regal, with an aquiline nose and full sensuous lips that were now highlighted by red lipstick. Her makeup in general was applied tastefully and very erotically for her age; it looked both seductive and classy. To Jim, she reminded him of a Raquel Welch or a Sophia Loren. The clothes Julie wore were also stylish and sexy, showing a bare hint of a shapely thigh, the enticing swell of a full breast. A body like that spelled “personal trainer”. If she frequented the Polo Club she certainly had the money to afford one.

  “How long have we known each other now, Jim?”

  “Six months, maybe more.”

  “And we’ve had excellent conversations in those six months, have we not?”

  Jim nodded, trying to hide the grin. Julie was one of five or six of his regular customers who he’d gotten to know pretty well. While they were in no way close personal friends, they’d talked enough over the past six months that Jim felt comfortable around her. He could sense that she felt the same way. They’d talked about everything from world events and politics, to trading anecdotes about friends and family, to sharing various travel stories with each other. Last month, when she learned he’d just celebrated a birthday, she’d slipped him an envelope with a crisp one hundred dollar bill inside. “Happy Birthday,” she’d said with a smile. Not many customers would do that, but Julie was one that would.

  “I agree,” Jim said. “We’ve had many excellent conversations.”

  “We have a modicum of trust with one another.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And I told you from the first few times you served me that you can dispel with what the management of this place commands you to do,” Julie said. She took a sip of her drink and set the glass down in front of her. Her nails were long and red; her hands and fingers were tanned and slender. “You can address the other ladies in this establishment by calling them ma’am or Ms., but you are to call me by my given name; Julie Montenelli. Sans last name to make it more formal, of course.”

  “Yes, Julie.”

  She chuckled. Her gray eyes sparkled invitingly, never wavering from his face. “For a minute there I thought you were going to say ‘yes, ma’am.’”

  Jim laughed. “No, Julie.” He picked up a towel from behind the bar and began wiping the counter down in front of her. “I’ll call you by your name. It’s just...well—”

  “I know. Martin is your boss and he’s at the other end of the bar.” She took another sip of her scotch and folded her hands in front of her. Jim continued wiping down the bar, looking at her as they talked. “But you don’t need to worry about him. I know Martin very well. I know his boss even better. They’re both firm believers in the adage ‘the customer is always right’. In this case, the customer is requesting that you address her by her first name.”

  “And so I shall,” Jim said, smiling.

  Julie smiled back.
<
br />   Another customer approached the bar a few stools down from Julie and signaled to Jim. “Duty calls,” he said, and moved over to take the new patron's order.

  Jim Cornell had been tending bar at the Polo Club for nine months. It was the tenth job he’d held since he was laid off from Lockheed, where he’d been employed as a software developer. Despite the fact that he was still relatively young at thirty-five, he hadn’t been able to land a professional job since his layoff. His professional career had been strictly in the field of software development and Information Technology, and with the advent of the downward spiral of the US economy and the outsourcing of IT jobs to India, where the labor was much cheaper, Jim had been one of the hundreds of thousands who received their walking papers.

  It was seven p.m. and the Polo Club, which rested adjacent to the Ritz Carlton in San Marino, was one of the busiest upscale lounges in Los Angeles. It was a private club and catered to the wealthy. It was frequently filled with men and women who looked refined, healthy, and fit; men and women who arrived in Jaguars, Mercedes Benz’s, Corvettes, Lexus’s; men and women who dressed in the latest tailor-made Armani suits and fashion designs; men and women who sat on the Board of Directors at Hospitals, Corporations, Universities; men and women who were business tycoons, entrepreneurs, CEOs, high-level corporate executives, physicians, and lawyers. A few of the men and women who frequented the Polo Club hailed from the entertainment industry; motion picture movers and shakers, directors, producers, record industry moguls. It was a place where the elite could relax with a drink and unwind with their peers, maybe strike a deal, and perhaps trade in gossip of their respective trade. It was a place that required those that worked at the club to be on their best behavior and maintain an air of professionalism in appearance.

  Jim didn’t mind. It certainly paid better than any of the dead end moron jobs he’d been able to snag since his layoff. And while the rich seemed to be stingier with their money when it came to tips, the few he received that were beyond the norm made up for the minimal ones. On a good night he could bring in two hundred dollars in tips.

  It was with this reason that he requested the night shift, from six p.m to two a.m. It was between those times the majority of the movers and shakers seemed to get the urge to go to the Polo Club and do their thing. It also permitted him to stay at home with his daughter, Sarah, while his wife Nancy taught immigrant children, crackheads, and gangbangers at Yonker’s Junior High in South Central Los Angeles. Both of them had been crushed when they learned her first year of teaching remedial English to disinterested students would only net her $32,000 a year before taxes.

  Their combined income was barely enough to keep their heads above water. Much less Sarah’s.

  Two years ago Sarah was diagnosed with bone cancer. She’d been under the care of their HMO’s pediatrician and the disease had gone into remission. They thought they were in the free and clear but the cancer came back full blown. It affected her lymph nodes and her spleen. They’d been able to get her basic care, yet the HMO balked when they proposed taking her to a physician Nancy had heard about who’d been treating pediatric cancer patients with great success, a physician who, thank God, practiced locally. The HMO balked on the principle of the physician's specialized practice and the fact that he fell out of their network and his treatment didn’t fall into the narrow umbrella of approved treatments. Despite the fact that the success rate of children who had the amount of cancer that Sarah was currently afflicted with usually beat it while under the care of this Dr. Andrew Goldsmith, the man whom they wanted so desperately to take their little girl to, the HMO refused to cover his services.

  Jim had been furious when he initially received the letter of denial from the HMO. Nancy had been equally as mad, too. They decided to take Sarah to Dr. Goldsmith themselves. Just to have an honest medical opinion would be worth the effort and out-of-pocket expense.

  They took Sarah to see Dr. Goldsmith seven months ago. They liked him immediately; he was middle-aged, kind, and very fatherly looking. He made an immediate rapport with Sarah. Nancy had brought their daughter’s medical records with them, and after his examination he sat both parents in his office to render his verdict. “Your daughter’s cancer will spread throughout the rest of her system if the lymph nodes under her arms and in her abdomen are not removed immediately. You say that your HMO has refused to treat her?”

  “They refuse to pay for the operation because they consider it too expensive,” Jim had said. He and Nancy had sat holding hands in the comfy setting of Dr. Goldsmith’s office. Sarah was being cared for by one of Dr. Goldsmith’s nurses, in the little playroom set adjacent to the waiting room.

  “Blood suckers,” Dr. Goldsmith muttered. He looked at them. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it upsets me greatly when I hear stories like this. It’s so frustrating when businessmen and insurance people make medical decisions that threaten the lives of so many patients.”

  “Could you perform the operation for us, Dr. Goldsmith?” Jim asked.

  “I could, but your HMO wouldn’t pay for it.”

  “How much would an operation like this cost?”

  Dr. Goldsmith had shrugged. “To be honest, you’d have to talk to Lisa in the front office. But roughly speaking, I’d say in the twenty to twenty five thousand dollar range.”

  Jim and Nancy had looked at each other, and later they realized they were both thinking the same thing. They could second mortgage the house; throw whatever savings they had left into the treatment. As a family unit, they were tight. They’d grown closer since the birth of their daughter, and now that things were going bad and there were signs of fractures, they were doing everything in their power to keep their family unit together. “It’s you and me against the world,” Jim once told Nancy early on in their relationship. That comment had brought a smile to Nancy. In the years that passed, it had become their unofficial motto, rarely referred to aloud but understood implicitly between them.

  They’d left the doctor’s office with the promise that once they secured the loan against the house, they would call to make the necessary appointment. What they hadn’t counted on was the abrupt cancellation of their health insurance policy by Good Life, their HMO.

  Dear Policy Holder, the letter began. We regret to inform you that because of your breach of contract (see Article 1, section 2, paragraph 4 of your health insurance policy) we are canceling your policy effective ten days from the date of this letter. Should you request a hearing on the matter, please contact us at the phone number above upon receipt of this letter.

  Jim didn’t know what Nancy had felt when she read it, but he knew what he felt; betrayal. It felt like all the weight of the world was suddenly crashing down on his shoulders. For a moment he thought he was going to faint. Then Nancy’s voice had cut into the din, tear stricken. “How could they? How—”

  And then she’d broken down in sobs. He’d held her, whispering words of comfort.

  They’d tried to appeal, but to no avail. Because they’d consulted with Dr. Goldsmith, a physician outside Good Life’s realm of limited medical groups it conducted business with, and because of their strict prohibition of the treatment they were seeking was against the contract they’d entered into when Nancy signed the insurance paperwork, their policy was cause for immediate cancellation. The appeals board seconded the motion. Ten days after they sought Dr. Goldsmith’s help they were without medical coverage.

  They’d tried applying for other health plans. But when it came time to filling out the section for Sarah under the question, “does this patient have any pre-existing conditions that are considered terminal or life threatening?” he could already see they were doomed. They were rejected by ten health plans on the basis of Sarah’s pre-existing condition. And even though the two of them could have easily gotten coverage for themselves, it wasn’t worth it to get medical coverage without having their daughter adequately covered.

  The Polo Club filled up and Jim worked making Long Isla
nd Ice Teas, Manhattans, Fuzzy Navels, Tom Collins’, Bourbon and Cokes, Gin and Tonics, and other drinks. He poured beer on tap into frosty mugs, served up imported beers, and on two occasions went into the back storeroom to retrieve bottles of Blackened Voodoo beer from New Orleans for two businessmen who requested it on an almost weekly basis. The clientele of the Polo Club kept him busy although Sarah and Nancy were constantly on his mind.

  In the end they’d decided to take the plunge and second mortgage the house to pay for Sarah’s surgery. The loan went through, and Sarah underwent surgery two weeks later. Nancy took a second job as a cocktail waitress at a pub called Moose Migillacuddy’s in Old Town Pasadena to help make ends meet; Sarah stayed at a friend of Jim and Nancy’s for the six-hour interval that neither parent could be available to care for her. The stress of worrying about Sarah took its toll on Jim and Nancy physically and mentally; things they never would have argued about before were bickered over continuously; he began snapping at her over little things, she began carping at him for things equally as petty. And to make matters worse, a new tumor was discovered during Sarah’s second checkup following her surgery. It was in the beginning growth stages within her abdominal cavity. The good news was that this new tumor’s growth rate was very slow. The bad news was that without a second surgery and chemotherapy, she would be dead within a year.

  It was at that point that Jim thought he was going to go mad. With no money left to pay for further treatments, he was at a loss. Jim and Nancy had another talk with Dr. Goldsmith when the news was broken. “I know what you both went through to start treatment with Sarah,” Dr. Goldsmith said. His features were heavy with guilt.