by David Beers
Heading further down the dirt road was a risk. If it ran into an abandoned house, that would be great. An inhabited house? Much less great.
“No,” John said. “Someone might live there.”
Cindy smiled. “So how do you want to do this? Front seat or back.”
“Get out of the car.”
He looked at her and saw fear in her eyes. Playfulness, too, but fear that hadn’t been there ten seconds ago.
“It’s a dirt road, John.”
“Get out.” He turned his head to her, then. The playfulness in her eyes disappeared as he pulled the gun out from the back of his jeans.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Get out,” he said again.
“No, John. I’m not getting out.” Strength came back into her voice as she found herself again.
John could see Harry looking at him, but it didn’t matter what Harry thought anymore. John didn’t look anywhere else but into Cindy’s eyes. “Don’t make me grab you.”
“Why are you doing this? What are you doing, John?”
He reached behind him and pulled the door handle, pushing the door open. “Let’s go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you getting out?” he said, his voice flat.
She shook her head, tears coming to her eyes.
John nodded and looked down at the front of his jeans.
“Please stop,” Cindy said.
John’s left hand rushed forward, grabbing a large mass of Cindy’s hair. He yanked while simultaneously backing out of the car, dragging her across the passenger seat. She screamed loud, like a small rodent swept up by a hawk, talons sinking into flesh and knowledge that it would never again touch the ground while alive.
The car muffled much of the screams until John dragged her onto the dirt road. Cindy’s hands held onto his, trying to bat away the fingers causing so much pain, while her body collided with the ground.
John dropped her and then swiftly fell to his knees, his face right next to hers. “Quiet, Cindy, or I’m going to put this bullet in your forehead.”
She looked at him through blonde hair that went every which way. She saw the gun’s muzzle for the first time pressing against her cheek, and her screams quieted to whimpers.
“Get on your knees,” John said, standing up. Harry stood outside of the car now, a few feet to John’s left. He had no recollection of Harry opening the car door, but what did that matter?
“John, I love you. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”
He watched the girl climb to her knees so that she kneeled in front of him, tears and dirt streaking her face. “You don’t have to do this. I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.”
John said nothing, only raised the gun so the barrel pointed at her chest.
“Please,” she whimpered.
John’s pupils were pinpoints, everything outside of Cindy now black—like a light from heaven shone down, singling out the girl in front of him, allowing him to see nothing else. Even Cindy’s words disappeared in the brilliance of his focus. Thoughts of after and thoughts of before were inconsequential. Only this singular moment existed, and only John in it.
He raised the gun to her head and pulled the trigger.
The gun violently pushed back against his arm.
He watched the girl’s head move as if in slow motion—as if John himself had slowed time. He watched her head swell as the bullet entered, creating pressure that her bones could not support. He saw, at the same time, her eyes glaze over as all life left them. Blood splattered outward, spraying from the hole John put in her forehead.
He would repeat this scene over and over for the rest of his life: the moment when he killed his first love. His first lover. He could repeat it because he saw it all so goddamn clearly.
She remained in her kneeling position for a second as if unclear what she was supposed to do. Then she fell backwards, hitting the car door on the way down.
How many minutes did he stand there looking at the body? John couldn’t be sure, not then and certainly not later, but he stared for a long time.
Only the realization that light would come shortly when the sun rose—casting him in its glorious morning glow as he stood above Cindy’s body—made him move.
Yet, as would come to be true throughout his life, the first move was to his knees. He made Cindy stop screaming, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to start. He opened his mouth, ready to let all the pain inside him out into the surrounding woods, but only a small, strained sound came. Like a motor finally winding down to its death.
Tears dropped.
His chest heaved.
But all his screams were silent.
He fell to the ground, laying on his stomach, stretched out across the dirt road, and cradled his dead lover’s head. Why did he do it? Why had he done any of it?
“I’m so sorry, Cindy. I’m so fucking sorry,” he said as snot dripped from his nose and tears cascaded from his eyes.
Cindy said nothing. She only lay there in the darkness with her eyes staring blankly ahead.
Perhaps John fell asleep or perhaps he only lay there holding her head in his hands. He only knew that time passed and when he finally recognized the late hour, fear struck him nearly as harsh as sadness had before.
Where’s Harry?
John scanned the road’s clearing but saw no trace of his dead friend.
Alone.
What do I do?
His mind frantically scrambled, trying to map out all possible courses of action because the sun would rise in the next couple hours. He had at least an hour drive back to the dorm. No way could he leave the car here and hoof it; he’d never make it back.
And what about your hair? Your fingerprints? They’re all throughout the car.
A colder part of him, perhaps a part closer to Harry, spoke next. There’s a reason it’s all in the car. You rode with her to her parents.
John listened to it and understood.
What else is there?
The phone call to her dorm room, which can be explained away. What did she tell her roommate?
That was the question he couldn’t answer, the one that could end John if it went the wrong way.
There’s nothing you can do, the voice said—a sanctum that he hadn’t heard from before but what would come to protect him for much of his life. The voice that arrived when Harry left. The voice that spoke despite his horror, repulsion, and self-hatred. The voice that cared only of his survival.
It’s time to go, it said and John knew he had to leave. He crawled closer to Cindy, her face a bloody disaster of what was once so beautiful. He kissed her lips, hers unresponsive for the first time. Blood spread to his face.
Don’t touch anything else. They’ll find it on your clothes.
He did as the voice instructed—that reptilian piece of him.
He knelt and wiped his hands on the dirty road, most of the blood on him coming off as he rubbed it against the ground. He then picked the gun up and wiped it down with his t-shirt before dropping it next to Cindy’s body.
John stood all the way up and went to the front seat of the car. He got in and backed out of the dirt road, not needing to start the car as it had never been turned off.
John drove the car back to the campus and parked it in Cindy’s designated spot. He didn’t bother wiping down anything. There wasn’t any need.
He got out of the car and walked to his dorm alone, entering with his key. No Harry. No Cindy. No one else.
Eventually the body was found.
The police came. They spoke with him. They spoke with her roommate. Neither of them knew anything and both were beyond devastated. John broke down as the cops spoke to him—sobbing, saying how much he loved her. How much he missed her. The tears were true.
Cindy’s parents spoke with him, their grief visible in their face, spread through every word they said.
Time went on, though, an
d John saw no more of the cops or her parents.
He told everyone at home that they broke up. He told everyone on campus nothing. Indeed, John hardly spoke to anyone during his second year in school. He became a ghost of sorts, floating into his classes and floating back out without anyone really noticing him.
John saw no more of Harry for the next two years. He thought of him, though. Not often, but enough. His thoughts were full of both hate and longing. Hate for what Harry made him, longing because no one else could ever understand it.
A winter set in on John Hilt, not in his mind, but in his heart.
It wouldn’t thaw for years, not until he met Diane.
19
Present Day
Susan should have been back in Dallas by now. Hell, she should have been back hours ago. Nothing comes easy in this world, though—that’s what she understood with perfect clarity. She drove for hours around the area where Hilt was supposed to have visited, no shops open so she couldn’t talk to anyone. Even the local police station was closed. She had to wait until the sun came up to find anyone, but even then the police didn’t show.
She found an old lady at a convenience store. The lady nodded as if this were a routine for her, gringos coming down and asking about other gringos. The woman pointed and spoke some broken English, which sent Susan where she needed to go.
And as she pulled up to the motel, she understood why no cops were at the police station.
They were all here.
The police force centered around a room in the middle of the building, and as Susan walked closer, she saw it was room forty-six.
“Señorita, you can’t be here,” a dark complexioned man said.
Susan’s heart beat in her chest like a hummingbird’s wings flapped. She needed to know what was in that room. Who was in that room. She pulled her badge off her belt though she knew it carried virtually no weight down here.
“English?” she said.
“Si, señorita, but you can’t be here. No one is allowed right now.”
“Sir, I just drove ten hours to get here and then waited another five to see someone. I’m a police officer from Texas and I’m willing to bet that’s an American in there. I don’t want anything to do with your investigation. I don’t want the body. I don’t want evidence. I just need to know who’s in there. That’s all. I just need to see inside that room for one second.”
The police officer looked at her and then her badge.
“One second? That’s all? Then you leave?”
“Yes. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. I think that maybe whoever is responsible for that room,” Susan said, pointing, “is on his way back to America right now.”
“Uno momento,” the man said, raising one finger into the air. “Come on.”
The cop turned and started walking to the door. People glanced as she passed but no one said anything. Susan kept her eyes forward, seeing no women in her periphery. She was both the only American and the only female at this crime scene.
“There,” the cop said standing next to room forty-six’s door. Susan looked in and saw the dead body. An old man lay on the bed, his head closer to the color of a prune than a human. A vein stuck out across his forehead, a green line living on a purple mass.
“What’s his name? Did he have an ID on him?” Susan asked.
“Si. Scott Hilt.” The accent was thick but she had no trouble understanding who he meant. No trouble at all.
“Thank you,” she said and turned from the door, walking past the cops still staring at her. She got in her car without looking at any of them, pulled her phone out and found Alan’s number.
It rang four times before anyone answered.
“Hello?” her partner said, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Alan, he killed his father. I just saw the body. He’s not here so he’s got to be heading back that way. Get a warrant for his house and anywhere else. There’s no way I’ll catch him before he hits the border. You hearing all this?”
“All of it,” Alan said. His voice moved from barely awake to energized in seconds. “Get back here as quickly as possible.”
“Where’s Kaitlin?” Susan asked.
“She’s at work. I came home for a nap about an hour ago.”
“What about his family?”
“I’m heading over there now. I’ll bring more cops. Kaitlin should be safe at work. There’s no way anyone can grab her at that place, simply too many witnesses.”
“I’m on my way,” Susan said. “Make sure as soon as she leaves work that one of ours is with her.”
“I’m on it,” Alan said.
Alan hung up his phone and called the precinct. He unloaded what he knew and movement started. Calls on the warrant, cop cars heading to Diane Hilt’s house.
Alan wasn’t done making calls, though. He dialed Kaitlin’s number and it rang six or seven times before hitting her voicemail.
“Fuck,” he said. He dialed again and got the same response. One more time—straight to voicemail. Not even a single ring. He didn’t know what it meant but knew he didn’t like it. Third call and the phone was off. Had she shut it down? He made sure his number was programmed in it before she left the house.
He looked up that Starbucks number as fast as he could, then dialed.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Finally someone answered. “Hi, this is Talicia with Starbucks. How can I help you?”
“My name is Detective Alan Tremock. I need to speak with Kaitlin Rickiment immediately.”
“Umm … can you hold for one second?”
He could. The line went silent for what felt like two hours, though in reality five minutes passed. Five minutes he didn’t have.
“Hi, this is the manager. How may I help you?”
Alan fought back a sigh because he didn’t have time to waste on it, but goddamnit, he didn’t have time to keep repeating himself either. “I’m Detective Tremock. It’s imperative that I speak to Kaitlin Rickiment right now.”
“She left earlier. She said she wasn’t feeling well and asked if she could take a break, but she never came back.”
Alan hung up and was out of his house in thirty seconds. He heard Marie yell at him from the kitchen but he only opened the door and ran out, leaving it open as he did. Marie came to the door, her arms crossed, staring at him as whipped the car out of the driveway.
He pulled his phone out and called, watching from his rearview as she took the phone from her pocket.
“Hey,” he said. “Look, the guy is coming back and I think he might have kidnapped someone. I’m sorry. I’ll call as soon as I can.”
“Be careful,” Marie said. Her words were quiet, soft—like a whisper before bed. He heard the phone call die.
Alan pushed his wife from his mind; he couldn’t consider her right now, not if he was to find Kaitlin. Not if he was to …
Stop Hilt.
He sped at one-twenty down the interstate, moving through traffic like a water moccasin. He reached the Starbucks ten minutes later, pulling right up to the door—not bothering with a parking spot or the keys in the ignition. In a full run, he pushed through the door, his badge raised high. People moved out of his way, shocked and frightened.
“Where’s the manager?” he said loudly enough to end every conversation in the shop.
A few employees behind the counter slightly shifted their gaze to a black man at the register.
“You the manager?” Alan said, still approaching quickly.
“Yes, yes. I am. Are you here about Kaitlin?” His words rushed out of his mouth and Alan was happy to hear them.
“Yes, show me where she went.” Alan walked behind the counter, standing in a sea of employees, but the manager didn’t move. “Now!”
The manager nodded, as if reminding himself that he had a duty. “Over here.”
He walked past Alan and to the back of the building. Alan went with him only a step behind, an
d the manager opened the back door.
“She came here. This is where the employees take their breaks a lot of the time. She went home after that.”
Alan looked at an empty alley with a cinderblock wall opposite him. How much time had he wasted to see this wall? He turned around immediately and went through the coffee shop, so focused he saw no one. Once out of the building, he pulled his cellphone out and called Susan.
“Kaitlin’s not answering. She’s not at work. I’m sending someone to her apartment and I’m going to Eve’s. Do you have her number? Eve’s?”
Susan paused for a second. “No.”
“Where are you?”
“Hours away. Get off the phone and get someone to her apartment.”
Again Alan took to the road, arranging for someone to go to Kaitlin’s as he broke every speeding law. He pulled up at Eve’s but the place was empty. He banged on doors and windows but only a scary silence answered him.
He looked at the wooden door for a final second and then launched his foot into it. The siding splintered and it swung open.
“Kaitlin!” he screamed as he raced through the house.
When Alan reached the back bedroom, he realized they now had a missing person.
20
Life Interrupted
“You finished?” Alan asked.
“Almost. Hold your horses, kid,” Teresa said before sipping on her water. When she finished she took a final bite of her salad, the last small tomato. She chewed it, looking right at Alan as she did. Once she swallowed, she said, “Now I’m ready.”
“You do this on purpose.”
“Has your wife ever told you how much of a gentleman you are?”
He smiled as he left cash on the table, not looking at the check.
“I doubt you’ve heard that from anyone, ever.” She pulled herself out of the booth. “We come here entirely too much. We shouldn’t know the cost without seeing the bill.”
“Why not?”
“Because it means we work too late too often.”