Flipping up my pant leg, I see a line of blood standing out against the pale ghostly-ness of my skin. A thorn, long and jagged protrudes from a waxy vine. I move to grab it away from my ankle and then realize how stupid that would be, given that my mittens are wool and easily penetrable. Instead, I start twisting my foot back and forth, trying to extract it from the tangle of thorn bush without doing further damage. Of course, this throws me off balance on the uneven ground and I start to fall, catching my balance just before I land in a heap near the dead cucumber vines.
It takes another few minutes with much cursing and some mild sweating on my part, to finally get my foot out of the bramble patch. I’m bent over, hands on knees when I hear laughter nearby. Ezra, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, shakes his head back and forth.
“I know I said you get yourself into some strange predicaments, Tayt, but this is,” he pauses, eyeing the brambles and then my red, sweaty face. “Stranger than usual. Even for you.”
He sticks a big mitt out in my direction, offering a hand. I slap it away. Grunting, I throw my shoulders back and say—with as much dignity as someone in my place can— “I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“Parked near your cow.”
“Huh?” I whip off a mitten and run it over my damp forehead and crane my neck in the direction Ezra’s pointing.
“Daisy,” I mutter.
“Does she visit often?” He makes a weird snorting sound that comes when he tries to hold in a laugh. I try to glare further, but my eyes are practically squinted shut at this point.
“Too often. She’s from Brown’s farm.” I walk—no limp—toward the house. “His stupid cows are always getting out of their pasture and for some reason always end up in my yard.”
Ezra clears his throat. When I continue walking, he does it again, louder. I look back over my shoulder. His eyebrows are raised in a question.
I’d completely forgotten. His lady-friend. I need a minute. I stoop over my ankle, attempting to regain my rather mutilated composure. Seconds later Ezra’s legs appear near mine and he squats down, hand full of tissue.
“Let me see.”
I stand up and hike the pant leg up further. The air is bitter cold, but maybe it’s helping the blood to clot. I don’t look as Ezra winds the tissues like tiny tourniquets around the area. His fingers are rough with callouses but gentle. Several seconds later he’s done. I shiver but it’s because of the frosty wind blowing.
“You’ll live, I think.” He looks up at me, smiling.
“Thanks.”
I stand there, awkwardly, until he rises to his feet.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me toward the trailer. “Come and meet Shyla.”
“Shyla?” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. And fail. What is she, ten? “That’s a kid’s name.”
“Just come inside. You’ll feel better when you’re warm and off that foot. What were you doing out there anyway?”
I sigh and grumble. Ezra shakes his head and walks toward the trailer, leaving me to my mood. Who is he to bring a stranger into my house when I’m not even there? My cheeks are hot and, though I didn’t think it possible, my dark mood gets even blacker when I see the Holstein standing near my driveway chewing her cud. I’m about to hobble toward her waving my arms when Ezra puts a hand on my shoulder and propels me to the door.
“You could have asked before you invited her inside,” I say. My voice is bordering on petulant.
“Just come on.” He holds the door for me. I want to stamp my feet and yell and tell him that I don’t want to meet Shyla or anyone else that he finds appealing. I want to remind him of his soon-to-be-taken church vows and that he’s giving up a dream. And for what?
Mostly, I want to punish him for waiting so long to tell me about this. About her. I’m his best friend but right now I feel like a stranger. Or at best, like some distant aunt who gets the news last and only if the rest of the family feels like bothering to tell her at all.
I brush past him through the door and into the eat-in kitchen. Warm air blasts my face and my nose immediately starts running. I sniffle while shuffling around on the rug by the door, trying to extract my clogs and at the same time casting glances around the area to catch my first glimpse of her.
“You got any soda?” a voice asks. It’s female and sounds pretty. I look up from my shoe extraction and catch my first glimpse of Shyla.
Not exactly what I expected.
Short, spiky hair, earrings running up the cartilage on both sides of her ears, a pouting mouth that is covered in a bluish lipstick. My mouth practically drops open when I see the diamond stud poking out from her cheek. People pierce their cheeks? She must be all of thirteen, though her attitude and facial expressions tell me she’s much older. Or at least trying to be.
“S-O-D-A.” She repeats slowly and more loudly, as though I’m an imbecile. “Do you have any?”
Ezra snorts from behind me.
“Uh, no. No soda.”
Shyla sighs, shakes her head as though I just informed her that there will be no more electricity for the next six months and we’ll all be living in bunkers. She slumps toward the living room where the TV is still on, blaring more loudly than before. A judge is glaring at someone over her small glasses, making wise cracks while the plaintiff or defendant—I can’t tell from here—chuckles and shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another.
“Where ...” I start to ask at the same time Ezra starts talking.
“She’s a mentee. You know, through the Northwest Mentoring Program?”
I nod my head. It sounds vaguely familiar.
“They partnered you with a girl?” My clogs are finally off, and I hobble to the closest kitchen chair and flop into it. Why have my knees suddenly gone soft?
“Well, that’s the thing. I can’t be partnered with someone of the opposite sex. There was some confusion on their end—her name is sort of androgynous—and we’ve just met with the coordinator at NMP. They explained how this pairing won’t work. I was actually hoping that ...”
Realization hits me like a ton of proverbial bricks.
“Oh no. No. You’re not even thinking that I—”
“She’s a really sweet girl. You’ll like her.”
“Yeah, she’s made a great first impression. Though ‘sweet’ isn’t really the first adjective that springs to mind.”
“Shh,” Ezra says and pulls out the chair next to me. I don’t know why we bother lowering our voices, the TV drowns out any sound within a twenty-foot radius.
“She needs someone like you, Tayt. Someone strong and independent. You’d be a perfect role model for her. You can take her places or just hang out with her.” He stops, motioning toward the living room with his hand. “They said that activities don’t have to be expensive or extravagant. Just, you know, simple things like board games or going sledding.”
I try to picture me and Shyla playing Monopoly in my living room. I shake my head, but Ezra keeps going. If he doesn’t make it as a priest maybe a traveling salesman isn’t out of the question.
“She needs someone,” he repeats. “She’s sort of lost. In that weird place of teenage angst where it feels like the whole world is against you. You remember that feeling, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Just give it a try. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I lose the very small amount of free time I have, endure uncomfortable small talk and spend hours trying to entertain someone who looks like she’d as soon eat me as play a board game with me.”
“Don’t worry. She’s vegetarian.”
I snort.
“Great.”
“Just think about it, OK? I’m getting a mentee, too. A kid I haven’t met yet. We’ll all hang out together. It will be fun.” Ezra grins that same lopsided grin that he’s had since childhood. This would make my mother swoon into action, granting whatever wish she could. Which is how we ended up with so many stray animals at our hous
e during the months Ezra lived with us.
Now, it makes me want to smack him.
Joint laughter comes from the other room. Ezra jerks around in surprise toward the sound.
“She doesn’t laugh much?” I ask.
“No. I mean, yeah of course she does. Shyla’s a barrel of laughs. Who else is in there?”
Crap. I’d forgotten all about Leanne.
“Oh, uh, just a friend’s daughter. I’m watching her for a day or two. Trouble at home.”
Ezra raises his eyebrows. “See? I told you. You’ll be a natural at this.”
***
At eleven o’clock that night Leanne is once again in front of the TV. She did emerge, temporarily, to eat dinner at the kitchen table. Then she flipped through some magazines for a while because I told her that the TV had to be off for at least an hour. I never realized how noisy and annoying it was until forced to listen for hours on end. It was driving me nuts.
I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do. Should I enforce a bedtime? Offer to set up an appointment or two with a local counselor? How far is my role of temporary guardian supposed to go?
I leave Leanne with strict instructions not to open the door for anyone, not to answer the phone, and not to go out alone. I don’t give her a bedtime but do ask if she needs anything while I’m out. She tells me she doesn’t and pulls the thick blanket off the couch and over herself while I get my boots on.
A plan has been percolating in my mind and I need to act on it.
I can’t get Ezra’s request off my mind though, as I follow the winding road back to Prescott’s house. Ridiculous? Yes. And definitely not an option for me, not now.
With one hand on the wheel, I partially unzip my backpack and checks the contents. Spray paint, stun gun, handcuffs, and rope.
Who says one’s work life can’t be fulfilling?
Chapter Twenty-six
Sneaking into Prescott’s house for the second time is much easier than the first. My brain remembers which boards on the stairs to avoid due to squeaks. And I was genius enough to remember a penlight.
A big clock downstairs announces that the time is nearing midnight. My breath is fast and light in my chest, my palms damp with sweat under nitrile gloves. I had to pick the lock this time, but the gloves are thin enough that I could leave them on to do the job. The air in the house feels stale after the freshness of the outdoors, but it offsets this with warmth, welcome on my cold extremities and cheeks. I stop every few paces, listening for sounds of movement. There are none.
In my pocket the stun gun practically vibrates in anticipation. “Take me out and use me!” it says.
I swallow, a dry ball of fear lodged in my throat. This could go wrong on so many levels. I nearly glide down the hall, footsteps silent, ears alert to any movement.
No sound.
My hand reaches out to grasp the doorknob of Prescott’s bedroom. Light from the moon pours through the window across from his bed. The curtains are only half drawn. How can anyone sleep with that much light? He is though, his breath deep, even, and heavy when I push the door open. Thankfully, it’s the only sound; the door hinges are well-oiled. Extracting the stun gun from my coat pocket, I press the safety button to the “off” position and move toward the bed, cat-like.
At first, I can’t make out his face. But as my eyes adjust, I see the smooth planes of forehead and nose, shadows crisscrossing everything underneath his nostrils. He looks peaceful, oblivious.
This is someone’s child. The thought pops into my head suddenly. How do we all start out the same: downy heads and innocent hearts? But some of us turn so rancid and ugly inside.
This isn’t the time for philosophizing though. I close my own eyes for a second and picture Leanne in this man’s grasp. His hard, strong hands holding her down. Her screams for mercy. Struggling to escape a fate that she didn’t want. That no one does.
Heat bubbles in my gut like lava.
Ready.
I press a little button on the side of the stun gun. An arc of blue lightening cracks. Prescott jerks upright out of his sleep and I jam the little black box into his neck. His scream dies into a moan and then into nothingness within seconds. 100,000 volts of electric shock will do that to a person. His body slumps back onto the pillows. His eyes are closed but his mouth is partway open. Drool puddles onto the pillow.
My hands shake as I put the gun back into my pocket, remembering to put the safety back on first. I don’t bother turning on a light in the room since the moonlight is so bright. Instead, I crouch and extract the materials I brought from my bag.
I’m breathing hard as I remove the rope first. Long lengths of clothesline, cotton, not nylon, which is too slippery. I strip off Prescott’s shirt first—not an easy task. His arms are heavy and warm. Twice we bump heads. By the time I’m done, I’m sweating. He wears only tighty whitey’s down below and these are easier to remove. His belly has a line of thick curling hair running over it. He hasn’t put on the weight that usually comes with middle age.
Prescott moans a little, quietly, and I start tying. Sliding the rope around each wrist first in the type of knot that won’t come undone, then binding the rope to the bedposts. Left arm first, then left leg. Move around to the other side and repeat on the right.
I’m panting a little now, my forehead covered in a sheen of dampness. My shoulder is aching, pulsing with each heartbeat. I take a few seconds, hands on hips and slow my breathing. Surveying the room more closely for the first time, I notice that it’s not as untidy as the first floor. Not clean by any measure or clutter-free, but neater. There are flowered curtains hanging from the windows and the dresser across from the bed has a collection of framed photos. I try to imagine Prescott here with his wife, the woman I saw in the sewing room last time I was here. Did she know he was a monster? Did she care?
Stooping to my bag, I extract the can of spray paint. I climb onto the bed, sitting to the left of Prescott’s body and shake vigorously as recommended on the directions. A minute later, I stop. The silence is deafening after the metallic sound of the rolling ball mixing the paint in the can. I squint at the man’s chest. Luckily he’s not very hairy, other than the vertical strip down his middle. Carefully, with a hand steadier than I expected, I write the word rapist.
The paint is fire engine red, glossy and wet. It’s also perfectly fitting, though not perfectly straight, running across the muscles of Prescott’s torso. Now for the piece de resistance. I search through my backpack again, this time looking for a small white and green tube. Three actually. Krazy Glue. I pop a pin in the end of the first plastic cylinder, then the next, and the third. Prescott moans a little and I half-wish he was awake to see what’s coming.
I bend over him on the bed and squeeze all three of the small plastic containers between his legs. It dries nearly immediately.
Whatever he tries to do with his penis in the next week or so is going to be incredibly painful. I smile, then gather my things and leave the room.
***
By the time I get to my car, I’m shivering so hard that my key won’t go into the ignition. The air is icy outside, but inside the car’s interior a modicum of heat remains. It’s not just the cold that’s making me tremble, though. Adrenaline, left over with nowhere to go, leaks out of my fingertips. My teeth nearly nip my tongue between chatters.
He deserves it. He deserves it. He deserves it, one half of my brain drumbeats. The other half reminds me of Ezra’s words in the café the night we went to the movies: “Revenge doesn’t feel as good as you think it will.”
Part of me wishes I’d never taken Reba’s call. Another wishes that Prescott had been awake to see what I did. That I’d hurt him more. I wish ...
Thunk!
Something hits the side of the car so loud and hard that I scream.
Beside me in the wide driveway is a bull. At least I think it’s a bull. Clouds have passed over the moon and I’m momentarily blind. I can make out the dark outline of a hul
king shape. It looks more like a buffalo. I will my fingers to stop shaking long enough to get the stupid key to turn and finally—voila!—am rewarded with a growling muffler and lukewarm air blasting in my face. Turning the lights on, I see that it is indeed a bull, larger than any I’ve ever seen. What has Prescott been injecting these animals with steroids?
I pull my seatbelt on and snap it into place, then put the car in first and get ready to floor it. The bull, apparently enraged due to high beams in his eyes, is pawing at the ground. I smirk in response and put my foot on the gas. The car shimmies, whines, and then stalls.
Are you kidding me?
Bully-the Bull—maybe he won’t seem so scary if he has a sweet nickname—stares at me through the window with something like hate in his eyes. I think about all the movies I’ve seen regarding safety and wild animals—even though this one is technically domesticated. Surely the same rules apply. Should I continue eye contact, thus proclaiming my dominance? Or look away and avoid confrontation? Make loud noises, like beeping the car’s horn? Play dead? What’s the protocol for dealing with angry farm animals? Something that starts out like a whimper turns into a hysterical laugh. Ezra’s comments about strange predicaments bounce around in my head along with the words, “death,” “dismemberment” and “goring.”
I try the key again and again, until finally the Toyota starts. It sounds a little weird, like a Polka song might be starting in the rear end, but I ignore that. Bully though, doesn’t like the noise, and starts to paw the ground again.
I put the car in reverse. Going toward the bull seems like a bad idea. This time when I put my foot on the gas, I do it gently. Perhaps I can coast out, like a gentle, harmless butterfly in the breeze. I glance in my rearview mirror, making sure the driveway is clear (it is, hurrah!) and then back away from the bull. He’s lowering his head. Paw. Paw. Paw.
I keep on coasting backward, eyes on the mirror, repeating to myself over and over, “butterfly in the breeze, butterfly in the breeze.”
When the bull throws himself (literally, there is no other way to describe this than a throw) into my car the next time, he hits the right fender. Apparently, he’s not a fan of butterflies. The car shimmies and shakes and for one awful second, I think it’s going to collapse. I picture it like a tinker toy, falling apart into a thousand pieces and me, left in the driver’s seat that is no longer attached to anything, smiling, and waving at Bully.
Hear No Evil Page 15