by Paul Cleave
I wonder how far from the Garden City we’ve come. Out here it’s just one huge garden. Miles of it. It’s as if God created too many trees for Eden and dumped the surplus. Landry pops open the trunk. A jangle of keys, a few thuds and bangs, and then it’s slammed shut. Then nothing for about five minutes. He’s carrying a flashlight and I watch it light up the area as he’s walking. There’s a structure out there to the left, some kind of shack, but I can’t see any detail because of the reflection inside the car. He walks up the porch steps and goes inside, and then all I can see is a glowing light from behind glass. I stare at it, but it doesn’t move. He’s resting the flashlight on something. I pull at the handcuffs. I pull at the handgrip they’re attached to. I put my feet into the side of the door and use all my strength. It’s no good.
The glow of the flashlight moves again. Landry comes back out. He opens my door, leans in, and undoes one set of handcuffs. They dangle from the handgrip. He throws the keys for the remaining cuffs at my feet.
“Don’t waste my time, Feldman.”
He stands a few yards from the car. Rain pours around him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He has the air of a man who knows not to bother trying to stay dry because he plans on spending more time getting wet. He’s watching me with the barrel of a shotgun. I’m not sure where his handgun is.
The handcuffs are difficult to unlock. My hands are sore and my fingers are shaking. Rain is blowing into the car and I blink away what to Landry must look like tears. Finally I manage to get the key into the small slot, then both hands are free. I almost faint with relief.
The shotgun touches my cheek. The barrel is steel and as cold as ice. I stop dead. My blood drains into the balls of my feet.
“Grab a cuff from the handgrip, Feldman, and put it back on.”
I don’t even try to argue it. It’s hard undoing it, but I get there. Then I wrap one bracelet around my wrist and do it up. Then the other.
“Don’t hold back now, Feldman. Make sure they’re nice and tight.”
I look around as I tighten the cuffs. There’s no help here. I try not to grimace as the metal bites into the bones of my wrists.
“Keys?”
The barrel is still touching my face as I flick the keys to the edge of the seat. Holding the weapon in one arm he lowers himself and, keeping his eyes on me, reaches for them. I watch them disappear into a pocket and only now do I realize he’s changed out of his cheap suit into jeans, a flannel shirt, and a dark jacket. He’s wearing a cap that says Kiss the Cook. The rain hits the brim and rolls off the edges. His loafers have been replaced with hiking boots. He’s also wearing leather gloves.
“Come on out and don’t try anything funny, Feldman. I don’t have the patience for any trouble.”
I slowly climb from the car. On legs shaking from near cramp, cold, and terror, I stand and step forward. To my left I can hear a river.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks.
“Not as much as you.”
In a blistering movement I’m on the ground, my eyes swimming in their sockets, bright lights circling them. I manage to look up at Landry, but struggle to focus on him. What I can see is the shotgun in his hand, the butt facing me, and through a mind drowning in red-hot pain I slowly understand the connection. I manage to stay on my knees for a few more seconds before spilling onto my side. My jaw is throbbing. I think I’ll lie here forever. Before I get the chance he drags me to my feet and props me against the car. He slaps me around the face, hard, as though this is going to help me think straight.
“Okay, Mr. Smartmouth, neither of us wants that to happen again, and it won’t, as long as you cooperate and stop being such a smart prick.”
My eyes are struggling to focus and it feels like I’m trying to tune his words in from far away, but yeah, I get his point. He grabs a handful of my hair and shoves my head backward.
“Do you understand?”
My ears hurt and I slowly nod, not wanting him to scream again. The motion is nearly enough to make me vomit.
He steps back and tracks me with the weapon. “Now step forward.”
I stumble forward.
“Behind you is a cabin. It’s probably not up to your expectations, but it won’t kill you. We’re going to walk over there and you’re going to make your way inside. Just keep in mind that this is a Mossberg pump-action shotgun, Mr. Smartmouth. . ” He pauses. “Can I call you Mr. Smartmouth?”
I nod and it hurts.
“Just keep thinking about the shotgun. Keep thinking about what it can do to you. Now hurry up, or are you waiting for an invitation?”
I turn around. My view shifts from the shotgun and the man behind it back to the car and the cabin beyond. Though calling it a cabin is a fairly generous term. It has the minimum number of walls required to hold up a ceiling and be labeled a building. It looks to be the size of a small one-bedroom house. The walls are warped and knotted, made from a mixture of woods. The side wall I can see is made from weatherboards, while the wall closest with the glass sliding door is constructed from plywood and fence pales and plenty of sealant. The roof is made from aluminum sheeting. Without any guttering to catch and drain the rain, a small moat has formed around the cabin. A wooden porch extends a few feet from the sliding door and the roof extends above it. The glass part of the door is covered in grime, but isn’t broken or cracked. Pine needles stick to the glass all along the bottom. The metal runners have darkened with mud and rust. It’s hard to imagine anybody dragging these pieces out here in their car and constructing this small home away from home. Hard to imagine some do-it-yourselfer walking through a scrap heap and coming across these bits of wood and tin and getting the final image of this cabin in his mind.
Hard to imagine anybody would go to this effort.
Yet somebody has. Perhaps the same somebody standing behind me.
I walk past the car and climb up onto the porch. It creaks beneath my weight, but I don’t fall through. Inside the air is just as cold. The rain yells on the roof, but I can’t see any signs of leakage. There are two rooms. We’re standing in the main one. Surprisingly, the inside of the cabin has been lined, so instead of seeing the same weatherboards and the same fence pales along with some framing, it’s been lined with plywood. There’s a fireplace, a bench, and a couple of soft chairs that look like they may have swallowed a few animals over the years. Landry closes the sliding door, locking out the rain and any hope I have of getting out of this place alive.
“Sit down,” he says, pointing me to the larger of the two chairs. Its fading pattern of yellow flowers doesn’t make it look even remotely comfortable. Nor do the worn gashes with escaping foam and protruding springs. I fall into it. The broken framework pulls my body right to the back so my feet come off the ground. I rest my handcuffed hands in my lap. I can smell pine and mildew. Landry lights a match, and then in turn lights a lantern. It has a glass shell dotted with mold, but lights up the cabin a hell of a lot better than his flashlight does. Then he lights another one and puts it in the opposite corner of the cabin. Then he sits in the opposite chair. His is a checkered, brown-and-black pattern that somebody could play chess on. Next to him on the floor is a duffel bag. It’s unzipped, and I can see the clothes he was wearing earlier are folded up inside it.
An oval rug in the center of the floor is stained with mud and animal hair. The open fireplace is made from brick and cinder block with a chimney that is a long metal tube not much wider than my leg. At the moment it’s set with blocks of wood and yellow newspaper, but hasn’t been lit. Landry either likes the cold or doesn’t plan on being here long.
He rests the shotgun across his legs then sighs. No possible way can I get to him before he gets to his gun, not the way the chair is trying to eat me. I figure that’s the whole point. He looks tired.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.
“I’m not so sure you do.”
His hands clutch the Mossberg tightly. “Jesus, why in the hell do you have to keep o
n being so smart? Can’t you take anything seriously?”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t being smart. I’m taking this seriously. I’m just saying you don’t know what I’m thinking.” It’s hard not to stumble over my sentences, but I manage it. I’m scared. I know it and he knows it. So far it’s all we have in common. He lets go of the shotgun, leans back into his chair, and starts nodding.
“You’re wondering if this is my place. You’re wondering if I’ve brought people out here before. I’m right, aren’t I?”
I nod. He’s right.
“It belonged to a guy just like you. I caught him. It’s a while back now.”
“Did you give him a trial too?”
“Jesus, Feldman.”
“You’re making a big mistake. I didn’t kill anybody, and if you give me the chance to-”
“Shut up, okay? Do you know how many times I’ve heard guys like you tell me they’re innocent? I don’t need to hear it from you. All I want to hear from you is a confession.”
“Look, I know how you feel, I can understand-”
“You can’t understand anything, Feldman, you really can’t. I’m sick,” he says, and slowly he shakes his head. “I’m sick of dealing with all of this. Sick of people who kill for the hell of it, just for fun. I see these people go to jail, I see them released, and then I see them reoffend. They’re predators, and that will never change. They’ll always be among us. Their faces change, but their thoughts never do. They live among us doing what evil men do. I thought I’d seen everything. But there will always be worse.”
“Let me explain.”
“This is an awful place to die,” he says, and he looks around it as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “This useless shack in the middle of nowhere. You want to know what it was built for?”
I don’t answer him. I don’t need to.
“The guy’s name was Martin Rhodes. He was a pretty normal guy to everybody who knew him. Had a girlfriend he was engaged to. They owned a house together. They knew their neighbors, they had lots of friends. He was an artist. A sculptor. Used to make swans and shit out of blocks of ice for weddings. He was a pretty talented guy.”
“I remember,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I thought you would. He was all over the news. It’s the ice sculpting thing that people remember about him more than what he actually did. They remember that before they even remember his name. It was six or seven years ago now. So this is his cabin. This is where he brought his girlfriend when she no longer wanted to be his girlfriend.”
“There’s another guy, his name is Cyris,” I start, and he holds up his hand to stop me.
“Her name was Vicky. He tied her up and put her in the trunk of his car. That’s a long drive in that condition. A real long drive. That alone could have killed her. There used to be a bath right there,” he says, pointing to the far corner behind me. “No plumbing, just an old tub that suited the décor of this place. He kept her in the trunk while he carried buckets from the river that runs about a minute west of here. It had to be close enough so he wouldn’t have to walk far. He filled the bathtub with freezing cold water and he held her down in it. You want to know why?”
“This is a mistake,” I say, but he’s off somewhere, living in the past.
“He didn’t like the fact she was moving on without him. So he drowned her. And then he revived her. And drowned her again. He had her up here for six days, drowning or coming close to drowning her, and reviving her until she couldn’t be revived anymore. We found him when he came back into the city. He led us here. He’d put her back in the bath. He said he was cleaning her. We took the bath away as evidence and left this cabin standing. You want to know why?”
“I understand why you think-”
“It wasn’t cost-effective. That’s what they said. Didn’t want to pay anybody to drive up here with a sledgehammer and knock this shithole down. I haven’t been here since then. And I haven’t seen anything as sick until now. So when you say you understand, that’s bullshit. You don’t understand anything other than how it feels to cause pain.”
“I get it,” I say. “I get your world-has-gone-to-shit story, and maybe you’re right. Everybody hates somebody, nobody likes anybody, people fight for no reason or for every reason. It’s front-page news every day. I get it. But you’re making a mistake here. I haven’t killed anybody.”
“Q and A, Feldman. You get that? I ask, you answer. So let’s start with a fairly simple one. You think you can handle that?”
I say yes and he seems happy.
“Who has the gun?” he asks.
“You do.” It’s a big gun. No missing it.
“Who here is the officer of the law?”
“You are,” I say, though at the moment that’s a rather fine distinction to make.
“Who’s wearing the handcuffs?”
“I am.”
“Who’s on trial?”
“I am.”
“So who’s asking the questions?” he asks.
“You are.”
“So you would be?”
I shrug. “Answering,” I say.
“Are things clear enough?”
“They’re way too clear,” I tell him.
“Good, so you’ll shut up unless I’ve asked you something.”
He lifts the shotgun, crosses his legs, then replaces it. The barrel points at the wall. His hands are shaking slightly. We both notice this at the same time. I want to tell him he’s not only drawn the wrong conclusions, but also painted an entirely wrong picture. I want to tell him he’s a lunatic. I raise my left hand to my jaw-my right follows because of the handcuffs. I move slowly because I don’t want Landry misinterpreting any movement as an attempt to attack him. My jaw is throbbing. I’m lucky he didn’t dislocate it.
“I’ve brought a Bible along, Feldman. It’s in my bag. I’d offer it to you to swear upon, but I think it would be pointless.” His eyes narrow and he sweeps his hand through his gray hair. “I know what it’s like to no longer believe in God and I can’t imagine you ever did.”
I’m thinking the same thing. My life seems to have gone back to that game show, only now up for grabs is the opportunity to kill me, and it seems everybody is banging on their buzzer to have a turn. I wonder who the game-show host is then realize it’s my new friend Evil.
Landry crouches forward in his chair. “What do you believe in, Feldman?”
“A fair trial.”
He gives what sounds like a nervous laugh, then starts picking at a stain on his right knee, but only smudges it wider. He keeps itching at it then looks up at me, expressionless.
“You’re nothing more than a stain, Feldman.”
He reaches into the duffel bag and rummages around beneath his clothes and pulls out a wooden stake. I recognize the craftsmanship. He must have picked it up when he went back into my bedroom. He waves it back and forth, his eyes following it as if out of all the wooden stakes he’s seen this one has to be the nicest. Eventually his gaze moves back to me. There is no doubt in them. I can’t imagine anything I say will make him think I’m innocent.
“Which one did you murder first?” he asks.
“Why? It doesn’t matter what I say. I keep offering to tell you what happened, but the only thing you want to hear is the version you’ve come up with.” He doesn’t answer. I listen to the rain. It’s still heavy. I wonder if I’ll be dead before sunrise. “There’s nothing I can say that doesn’t make you angry.”
He keeps staring at me. Then he just nods. “Okay, Feldman, you make a good point. I said you’d have a fair trial, and that’s what I’m going to give you. So think of me as the prosecuting lawyer with a whole bunch of questions. So let’s start with the question I asked you, and we’ll see where that goes. And then we’ll see what the judge has to say.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The rain is pouring heavily on the tin roof. The inside of the cabin is damp, his skin feels clammy, his feet cold, and he feels sick at bei
ng in a place where such depravity took place. He feels sick too sitting opposite this piece of human trash.
He is starting to feel a little nauseous. When was the last time he ate? It takes him a few seconds to figure it out, which is a few seconds longer than it should have taken. It was the fries from before. He should have eaten the damn burger too. He’ll pick one up on the way home later. Maybe two or three of them.
The cabin felt just as damp last time he came out here, even though that was in the middle of summer. It’s amazing that after all these years his memory of the scene is so intense that he could almost close his eyes and use muscle memory to get around, his limbs knowing where to go. It just proves the worst thing you ever see will stay with you the longest. That girl in the bathtub died hard. Harder than anybody else he can think of.
Now that he’s here, he has to admit to himself that there are doubts starting to creep in. He’s never killed anybody before. He’s wanted to. Who hasn’t? As a cop, he’s wanted to do it more than most people. He’s had chances. There have been people he’s chased down that he could have put a bullet into, but chose not to. He’s annoyed that the anger that fueled him all the way out here seems to be disappearing. He needs to get it back. He thinks of the way Kathy and Luciana were cut open.
It helps.
It makes him feel once again he’s on the right path. Only problem is this path is pretty close to another path, one in which he thinks he should have just taken Feldman in to the station.
All he can do now is move forward. If he shows up at the station with Feldman now he’ll have to explain this little outing, and it’s going to look as though he withheld evidence just in case he felt like killing the suspect. Which is exactly what happened. And exactly what he’s going to have to do. Now. He could blame the pills and the cancer, but he’ll still be disgraced. He’ll lose his job. They’ll send him home and they’ll wonder how many other people he brought out here, or took to similar places. He’ll pass from this world to the next under a cloud of suspicion.