by J. D. Barker
“I think she’s going into shock,” I said.
The rat had stopped digging, but it had made a bit of a mess. Aside from the last bite, the wounds weren’t deep, but they were plentiful. Scratches covered the area surrounding the water, little marks as if someone took the edge of a razor blade to her abdomen with thin slices.
Father tugged off the tape and batted the bowl aside, sending it and the rat flying across the basement. “Damn rodent . . . too far . . .” he muttered, snatching up the water glass and dumping the contents on Mrs. Carter’s face. The gasps stopped. She glared at both of us and shrieked.
Father slapped her, his open palm leaving a bright red mark on her face. She fell silent, her body shivering in violent spasms. “Oh come now, that wasn’t so bad.” He dabbed at the wound with the paper sack. “See? Just a little scratch. Nothing to write home about.” He leaned over her again, his lips at her ear. “If I wanted to hurt you, I mean really hurt you, I could do much worse. I once took a knife to a man’s fingers and cut off the skin clear to the bone. First I sliced down the center, then I began cutting away thin little strips. I took nearly an hour to finish with the first one. He almost went into shock only a few minutes in, so I gave him a shot of adrenaline. Not only did that wake him right back up, but it amplified the pain.” He reached down and caressed the back of Mrs. Carter’s hand. She jerked away, tugging at the handcuff. “Do you know there are twenty-seven bones in the human hand? Some big, some small. They all break, though. I’m not sure if he was able to feel much at that point, since I cut away most of the skin, tissue, and tendons, but he sure did squeal. I bet if I did that to you, if I skinned your fingers one at a time, you’d tell me the truth fast, don’t you think?” He traced the back of her hand and circled her wrist before grabbing her tight. “I bet if I sliced just right, if I started here and worked my way around to here, circled the dorsal branch right here at the ulnar nerve, I bet I could peel your skin off like a wet glove. I’d need to be careful not to nick the vein, but I think I could do it.” He turned back to me. “What do you think, champ? Should we give it a try?”
The picture popped into my head.
Father pressed his palm against the wound in Mrs. Carter’s abdomen, and this time she didn’t scream. Her eyes rolled so far back into her head, they went white, then her head fell to the side.
“Is she dead?”
Father touched the side of her neck. “No, she passed out. I suppose it was bound to happen.” He rose and started for the stairs. “You can untie her, but leave the cuffs on. Then get upstairs and get some shuteye. This has been a long night. I need to have a talk with your mother.”
“What about the rat?” I called after him. He was gone, though, and I was alone with our guest.
48
Emory
Day 2 • 8:06 a.m.
Sweetie? You really need to get up. All this napping isn’t healthy, not in the least.
Emory swatted absently at the air around her, at the thick fog that had settled over her thoughts. When her eyes blinked open, they saw nothing. She was only able to tell they were open because of how dry they were—the cool air on her pupils felt so gritty, she had to pinch them shut again. She tried to roll over but couldn’t.
Somebody was holding her down! Somebody pressed down on her back and shoved her into the concrete floor. God, don’t let him take my eyes! Don’t let him take my tongue! She braced herself, waiting for the pain of a blade to dip into her cornea and pluck out her eyes, or a hand to grasp at her throat and apply enough pressure to force her mouth open and—
Relax, sweetie. It’s just the gurney. Don’t you remember? That metal monstrosity fell down on you when you tried to lap up a little gutter water like a stray dog.
Everything came back in one quick flash, which was followed by an ache in her temple so great, she thought she might pass out again. Emory touched her forehead; her fingers came away sticky with drying blood.
Did you at least get a drink of water before all hell crashed down on you, dear? I don’t know about you, but I’m parched.
Judging by the state of her throat, she had not.
At first her wrist didn’t hurt. She felt nothing until she shifted her weight and tried to climb out from under the gurney, but when the pain did come, it came quickly. It felt as if her hand were separating from the rest of her arm at the wrist, seeming to cut through skin and bone like angry teeth. She tried to scream, but all that came out of her dry throat was a soft grunt.
Between the wrist and her battered head, dark semiconsciousness threatened to take her again. She fought it, though. Emory told herself that as long as she felt pain she was still alive and as long as she lived, she would recover regardless of what her current situation threw at her.
Oh, you go, girl. Girl power and all that. Nothing will play out on national television better than a girl missing her ear, with a stump for a hand, telling the world how she’s a survivor. Matt Lauer will eat that up. “How did you keep it together when your hand came off and all the blood started spurting out? I guess it felt good to be free, but hell, I bet it hurt something fierce, right?”
Was she bleeding?
With her good hand, Emory reached back and touched the extremely swollen muscle and tissue at the handcuff. There was blood, but not a lot. The cuffs had peeled back the skin nearly all the way around, but that wasn’t the part that bothered her most. She reserved that particular panic for the wrist bone protruding at such an odd angle under her touch. It hadn’t pierced the skin, but not for lack of trying. When she tried to move her wrist, it howled back at her and she went limp, sucking in a deep breath between her teeth.
Her wrist was broken for sure. For once, she was glad she couldn’t see.
Something told her she needed to stand up, and before another something talked her out of this course of action, she did just that, dragging the gurney up by her shattered wrist with a weak grasp until it was firmly balanced on four wheels. Then Emory stood, waiting in perfect silence bracing her shaking frame against the gurney, for the pain that was bound to follow.
The pain washed over her in a wave. Not only at her wrist but at her legs and arms as well. She wasn’t sure how long she had been out, but clearly it leaned more toward hours than minutes. Every inch of her body burned with numbness, then with pins and needles, finally with a deep throb that settled in, determined to stay awhile.
This time she didn’t scream. She was too shocked to realize she’d wet herself, the first time since waking here. The warmth trickled down her leg and puddled at her toes.
Emory stood there as Rod Stewart’s voice suddenly began to shout from above, the chorus of “Maggie May.”
She stood there and wondered how much longer it would take for her to die.
49
Diary
I applied a cold, damp cloth to Mrs. Carter’s wounds. They didn’t look quite as bad as I expected. Nothing a little Neosporin and a Band-Aid couldn’t handle. Unfortunately, I had neither, so the damp cloth would have to do.
I thought she would wake up, but after twenty minutes she was still sound asleep. I was convinced that’s all this was, sleep. Shock is nothing more than a defense mechanism orchestrated by the body. Things get a little hairy, and the body flips the off switch to compensate. Combine that with the enormous amounts of adrenaline released by the medulla just before, which caused her metabolism to go into overdrive, and you have got a recipe for an epic crash.
She would rest, then she would wake.
I found a blanket atop the washing machine and draped it over her small frame, then went upstairs.
I found Father passed out on the couch, a bourbon bottle lying empty on the floor beside him. I crept past without so much as a squeak of the floorboards, ducked into my room, and closed the door.
I stood there, my forehead resting against the door, eyes closed. I had never felt so tired.
“Did you tell him about the picture?”
I spun around and
found Mother standing in the corner, her features obscured by shadows, her body a mere outline in the dark.
“Did you tell him about the picture?” she asked again, her voice low, full of gravel.
“No,” I said, my own voice sounding far more timid than I intended. “Not yet,” I added, attempting to sound tougher than I felt.
She stepped toward me, and I realized she carried a knife, one of the large ones from the butcher block in the kitchen. I wasn’t allowed to play with those.
“What did she tell your father?” The blade caught the moonlight and glistened as she twisted it in her hand. “Does he know?”
I shook my head. “He thinks you were sleeping with Mr. Carter.”
I’m not sure where I learned the term sleeping used in this manner, and even though I was certain I used the word properly, it felt funny coming out of my mouth. “He was . . . persuasive, but she didn’t tell.”
“What did he do?”
I told her, leaving out the fact that a rat was still running around the basement. Can rats climb stairs?
“And you won’t tell him, will you? It will be our little secret?”
To this I said nothing.
Mother raised the blade and stepped into the moonlight. Her eyes were red and puffy. Had she been crying?
“If you don’t tell him, I’ll let you do things to Mrs. Carter. Private things. Things boys your age only dream about. Would you like that?”
Again I said nothing. My eyes were fixed on the blade. “You know what your father will do to me if he finds out, right? What he’ll do to Mrs. Carter? You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?”
“I cannot lie, Mother.” The words came from my mouth before I realized I spoke them, before I realized my error.
Mother lunged at me, the knife held high, stopping mere inches from my face. “You will keep this from him, or I will gut you like a fucking pig while you sleep. Do you understand me? I will carve out your eyes with a sugar spoon and shove them down your little throat until you swallow them whole, like two ripe grapes fresh off the vine.”
The knife was so close to the tip of my nose, I saw two of them.
Mother had never touched me before.
Never hurt me.
But I believed her now.
I believed every word of it.
She went on, her voice hushed, yet so, so loud. “If you tell him anything, I’ll tell him you were there too. Many times. I’ll explain how you stood in the corner with your man parts out like a monkey at the zoo, drooling over your dear Mrs. Carter. How you watched your own mother through her bedroom window in the most secret of moments. You should be ashamed for your behavior, you despicable, deplorable child.”
I wasn’t about to let her intimidate me. Not this time. “Who took the picture, Mother?”
“What?”
“I think you heard me. Who took the picture? Was it Mr. Carter? Is Father right? Was there something going on between the two of you before yesterday? Is that why he followed you so easily?”
The hand wielding the knife shook as her anger grew. I knew I was pushing her, I knew I should stop, but I could not. “Somebody had to work the camera, and I’m willing to bet it was Mr. Carter. Is that why you killed him, Mother? You didn’t lure him over here to protect Mrs. Carter. You just wanted to cover your own tracks. Father will find the truth—you’d best prepare for that. You know he won’t stop until he has all the answers. You’re supposed to be faithful, Mother— that’s what married people do, not sneak around doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who.”
Her face was flushed. “Speak no evil, my son.”
“Do no evil, Mother,” I retorted. “We’ve all broken rules tonight.”
She flipped the knife over and dropped it. The blade missed my foot by less than an inch and buried itself in the floorboard, then she pulled open my door and stormed out into the hallway toward her room. Father remained motionless on the couch, oblivious to all, snoring deeply.
I plucked the knife from the floor, closed my door, and shoved my desk chair under the knob, securing it as best I could. The door had a lock, but Father had taught me to pick it when I was only five, and I was sure a simple Kwikset lock wouldn’t slow Mother, either, as she was no doubt a recipient of the same lessons. I closed and locked my windows as well. It was a sweltering night, but I had little choice. My mind’s eye could picture Mother climbing in and crossing to my bed, a spoon in one hand and the knife in the other. “Good morning, champ. Ready for breakfast?” I heard her say before she thrust the spoon into my eye socket while plunging the large blade into my abdomen with a twist. “We’re having your favorite.”
I shook away the thought, then pulled the blanket and pillow from my bed and carried them over to my closet, where I curled up on the floor amid the clutter of tennis shoes, soccer ball, and assorted odds and ends of a young boy.
I didn’t want to sleep but knew I should. This was far from over, and I needed the rest.
I couldn’t sleep with my eyes open, but I sure did try, dark dreams finding me as I stared blankly at my bedroom door, waiting for the monster to return, the butcher knife held firmly in my grasp.
50
Porter
Day 2 • 8:56 a.m.
“You can ask me, you know.”
Watson turned to Porter, then returned his gaze to the road ahead. “I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would. You don’t have to.” He paused for a long moment, then hesitantly went on. “I heard bits and pieces, from Nash mostly. I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am, but the right opportunity hasn’t come up. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry you didn’t get to tell me, or you’re sorry my wife is dead?”
Watson turned pale. “I’m just—”
Porter slumped, shaking his head. “No, wait—that came out wrong. I’m on edge. They’ve been pushing me to see a shrink, and I know I should, I know I need to, but every bone in my body objects. It’s like when you’re a kid and your parents tell you to do something and you do the opposite because you don’t want to do whatever it is they asked you, even if it’s the right thing. It’s the stubborn ass in me.”
Watson gave him a slight nod. He fidgeted with the evidence bag in his hands, the pocket watch rattling around inside. “Nash said she was shot.”
Porter nodded once. “We always made coffee in the morning before we headed off to work. That night we ran out of milk, so she went to the store to get a carton so we’d have some the next day. I had fallen asleep watching TV in the bedroom. I didn’t hear her leave. She probably didn’t want to wake me. I got up and found a note on her pillow telling me where she’d gone. It was only about eleven thirty, and since I had been sleeping, I wasn’t sure if she’d left five minutes earlier or two hours, but I had been out for nearly three hours. This job will do that to you—you run and run, and when you finally get a chance to breathe, it catches up to you and you collapse. Anyway, I got up and went out to the living room to read a book, figured I’d wait up for her. Another twenty minutes went by, and I started getting nervous. We usually go to this little corner market about a block away, five minutes each way tops, maybe another five or so inside the store. She should have been back. I tried her cell phone and got voice mail. Ten minutes later I decided to walk down myself.”
He paused, his eyes fixed on the road.
“I saw the lights. As soon as I rounded the corner onto Windsor, I saw the lights and I just knew. I knew it was my Heather. I started running. When I got to the store, the building was all taped off. Half a dozen patrol cars were blocking the street. I ducked under the tape and started for the door, and one of the uniforms must have recognized me because I remember hearing my name. Then someone grabbed my arm, then someone else, and someone else . . . It seems more like a bad dream than something that actually happened.”
“You were probably in shock.”
Porter nodded. “Probably.”
“Robbery?”
“
Yeah. Just some kid. According to Tareq, the night cashier, Heather was in the back of the store when this banger came in and shoved a gun in his face. I’ve known Tareq for going on four years now. Good guy, late twenties, wife and two kids at home. Anyway, Tareq said the kid pointed the gun at him, asked him to clear out the register. Tareq had been robbed before and knew better than to put up a fight, so he started bagging the cash in the till, thinks he had around three hundred and change. Tareq said the kid was shaking something awful, and you know that’s the worst kind of robber. The calm ones treat it almost like a business transaction—everybody plays their role and everybody walks away. The nervous ones, though, they’re another story. Tareq said he could barely hold the gun straight, and he thought for sure it would go off. And that’s exactly what it did, only he didn’t shoot Tareq. He shot the woman he glimpsed from the corner of his eye, the woman he didn’t spot when he came into the store. She startled him. He spun around and clipped the trigger. The bullet caught Heather below the right breast, passed right through the subclavian artery, a through and through.”
Watson lowered his head and stared at his hands. “She would have bled out fast. Nothing you can do for that.”
Porter sniffed and pulled a hard left onto Roosevelt. “The shooter took off, didn’t take the money. Tareq dialed 911 and tried to stop the bleeding, but like you said . . . nothing you can do for that.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You wanna know the real kicker? When I was heading home that night I remembered we were nearly out of milk. I was gonna stop for some, but the market looked busy when I got close, so I let it go, figured I’d head back out a little later. Do you believe that shit? I lost . . . because I was too damn lazy to spend a few minutes in line.”
“You can’t think like that.”
“I’m not sure what to think right now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t think I could have sat around that apartment one more day—neighbors all staring at me in the hallway, everybody treating me with kid gloves. Everything is off. Even this—” He waved his hand between them. “I figured bringing you along would be easier than Nash or Clair, but it’s no different. Part of me wants to talk about this with someone who doesn’t”—he cleared his throat—“who didn’t know her. Another part doesn’t want to talk about it at all, and the rest of me has no idea what I should be doing. Working Homicide, I’ve had to tell so many families about the death of a loved one. I became numb, detached. Twenty-three years of telling people, breaking that news. That kind of hurt became systematic to me. Would you believe I’ve got two or three speeches down cold? One to fit each scenario. Nash and I used to flip a quarter—loser had to give the death speech. I’d tell them what happened, explain how their loved one is in a better place, how they should move on and get past their personal tragedy, how time will heal. Now, though, all of that seems like complete bullshit. When I lost . . . I lost Heather . . . Christ, I can’t even say it out loud without getting choked up. She wouldn’t want me to get choked up. She’d want me to focus on all the good memories and forget about these past few weeks, not let them define the relationship we had. But I can’t do that. I want to do that. Every time I see something of hers—the book she was reading that she’ll never finish, the toothbrush that will never be used again, her dirty laundry, her mail. We played Scrabble once a week, and the last game is still set up on the board; I can’t bring myself to put it away. I keep looking at her tiles, wondering what her next word would have been. I wake in the middle of the night and reach for her side of the bed, and just find cold sheets.”