Loreena's Gift

by Colleen M. Story

  He let her go, his fingers lingering on her skin, and she walked away from him, across the room. Reaching the doorway, she paused and turned back.

  “I’m sorry about all this. I hope one day you can forgive me.”

  “What do you mean?” The chains clinked as he shifted in the bed. “Loreena, what are you doing?”

  She pulled her gloves off and dropped them in the rocking chair.

  “No, wait. Stop. That isn’t what I meant. Just go and look for the keys.”

  She shook her head. “I know what you meant. But this torture stops now. Otherwise, you’ll die again, for real this time, and I won’t be able to forgive myself.”

  “Loreena, no. Wait!”

  Her arm stretched out behind her as she kept hold of the frame, her last tether to the man inside. She wanted to say something more to him, but she could think of nothing he wouldn’t argue with, so in the end she waited one moment longer and then pulled her hand away, feeling as if the ground were opening up behind her into the darkest of chasms and she would never be able to cross over again.

  17

  No matter how carefully Loreena placed her feet, the wooden floorboards still betrayed her steps. Toe first, heel first, side of the foot first, and still the boards creaked under her weight. Hesitating after each one, she listened, but the water kept whining through the pipes, the air humid with steam.

  “Loreena!” Dominic whispered as loudly as he dared. More than anyone, he had an idea of what she was about to do, where she was going. When she neared the doorframe, it occurred to her that Frank could be standing elsewhere, watching her. She stopped, but sensed no other presence in the room. He must have decided his power over Dominic was enough to keep her in line. That, and likely the door to the bathroom had a lock on it, too.

  It took her another moment before she found the courage to move beyond the doorframe and enter what felt to her like the cave of a lion. Her heart pounded wildly, but her mind was strangely calm. Her main concern was that he would get the better of her before she could reach his hand. She couldn’t allow that to happen. A weapon was what she needed, something to catch him off guard, something she could use to knock him down or otherwise get him off balance. After that, it didn’t matter.

  Loreena moved into the room until her knee hit the bed. To her left, she heard a squeak in the shower stall, Frank’s bare foot twisting around.

  Her time was running out.

  A lone dresser stood against the far wall, six drawers, but they held only clothes. On the top rested a knitted cap, a pair of gloves, a ring, and a watch.

  She had to find a weapon.

  In the corner was a floor lamp, and next to that, a window. Back toward the door sat a small desk and chair, one drawer, but inside were only a pen, a pad of paper, and a couple of small objects that felt like batteries. In the other corner she found the only closet, hung with a packed row of shirts, pants, and jackets, all components of Frank’s suits. Suits, up here in the mountains! Loreena searched through them all and found nothing, so she bent down and tapped the floor, but discovered only two pairs of dress shoes, a pair of work boots, and two pairs of corduroy slippers. These she threw to the side as she continued to search, faster now, for any moment Frank would turn off the water. One could only spend so much time getting clean.

  Standing on her tiptoes, she felt around the shelf above. Her hands came up against sweaters, a scarf, and a shoebox full of papers. Rocking back on her heels, she shut the closet door. The only place left to search was up by the bed.

  On the right side, she found nothing but a mirror hanging on the wall. Perhaps she could knock him in the head with it, but it was large and unwieldy, the glass unframed and rough on her hands. She would cut herself trying to use it, and that would distract her from what she needed to do. There had to be something else.

  Making her way around the bed again, she came to the side closest to the bathroom, and there found a nightstand. On top stood a short lamp and something square—a clock, she guessed—and next to that a wallet and a leather-covered flask. Underneath rested a single drawer concealing some sort of candy bar, a coin case, a roll of bills, and a cigarette lighter. On the shelf below, three books lay stacked on top of one another. She could find nothing else.

  The whine of the water stopped.

  Loreena’s mouth went dry. She should have found something in the kitchen. She doubted they kept knives, this being a place the gang held prisoners, but maybe a fork. But it was too late now. If she waited behind the door, she could make a grab for him as he came out of the bathroom, but she might miss, and then her chance would be gone. She remembered the office at the Kelley bar, and how she had stabbed Shawn with a pen. Even though he had eventually caught up with her, it had given her time to break free.

  Listening for Frank’s movements, she dashed to the desk, opened the drawer, found the pen, and, holding it tightly in her fist, hurried back across the room and pressed up against the wall.

  Sweat trickling down the side of her face, she listened as Frank unlocked the door.

  The time between Frank’s exit and when Loreena actually took a step toward him stretched out in minute increments, her body living in what seemed an alternate dimension. The weight of what she was about to do pressed heavily on her shoulders. There was still a choice. She could still turn back, drop the pen, and take whatever punishment Frank decided to dish out for finding her in his room instead of in the kitchen. But this was the only chance she would have to go through with it, to put an end to it all for Dominic’s sake, as well as for hers.

  As the door swung back on its hinges, the thick slab of wood coming toward her face, Loreena knew this choice would change everything. After this, she would own the beast inside her, like a demon she had tamed and would now use for her own purposes. In turn, the beast would enjoy its own victory, having achieved recognition and respect in her eyes. Never again could she turn away from it and pretend it wasn’t there, or imagine she was too good and too pure to acknowledge it. No longer could she remain removed, unstained. With this choice, she firmly placed herself in the middle of it all, soiling her shoes with the darkest mud, and admitting to God and whomever else might be watching that she, too, had descended, and would no longer imagine herself living among the angels, an unwitting victim of what He or something else had infused in her hands.

  The door came closer. Loreena sucked in her belly. Just when she could smell it there, the thick scent of wood and dust rich in her nostrils, it stopped, leaving her encased in her own little coffin.

  Frank stepped out, smelling of soap.

  Loreena hesitated. On the other side of the door, the man who had caused all her suffering stood unarmed at the head of the bed. He seemed to just be standing there, doing nothing. She imagined him with a towel wrapped around his waist, and went through the motions in her mind. Push the door closed. Step out. Stab.

  The seconds crawled by. He still stood, unmoving.

  The thought occurred to her that God was giving her this last chance to change her mind. In a rush her uncle’s voice came into her head, and then her own voice, and Saul’s, reciting the Ten Commandments, and then the voices of the congregation lifted in song. All of the voices condemned what she was about to do and bid her turn the other cheek instead, and suffer whatever harm might come to cleanse her soul and secure her place among the righteous.

  Frank took a step. The floorboards creaked.

  Loreena moved.

  Push the door closed. Step out. Stab.

  The pen crumpled in her hand, but the tip sunk into flesh. Frank barked and whirled around, but Loreena was ready. As she had with Dirk, she grabbed Frank’s left arm and slid her grip down until she had hold of his hand. Thrashing on the floor, she clung to him.

  Frank fought hard. He knew what she brought to him as he stood alone in the mountain cabin, his moment of reckoning come much sooner than he expected. He wrapped his fist into her hair and yanked it back. The shock of it nearly mad
e her lose her hold, but still she clung to him. By then, she had pressed her palm against his, her other hand locked over the top to prevent her losing her grip. Whatever happened, she wasn’t letting go.

  A new heat built up inside her. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to it, resolved to get to Frank’s destination. A sharp pain seared through her ribs as he made a final struggle against her, punching her side with his stout knuckles, but it was too late. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on nothing but his transition from this world to the next. Whatever might meet her in that world, she didn’t care. Only that she took him to it.

  Everything went black. Loreena feared something had gone wrong, but then she found herself in the swirling, torpedo-shaped tunnel. Breathing a sigh of relief, she relaxed a little, for now there was no turning back. Frank floated beside her. She could feel his presence but didn’t want to look at him. Her only curiosity was what awaited him now, what monsters, bloody rivers, and soulless bodies would torment him. When the light ahead began to change from black to a skylight blue, she nearly pulled up short.

  This couldn’t be right.

  The scene in front of them became clearer as they went, first the white puffy clouds and then a quaint little town below, with rows of dirty white houses. Forest-covered hills swelled in the background and a bubbling creek splashed along the east side. To the left, Loreena saw nothing but darkness. To the right, Frank stared, transfixed on the town. He was dressed in a white collared shirt, khaki pants, and loafers, thin black hair parted on the left and slicked over, his face clean and freshly shaven. When he finally turned to look at her, his green eyes were clear and misted in tears.

  “That’s my hometown,” he said.

  Loreena blinked, trying to focus more clearly. This wasn’t the man she had imagined, the devil who had haunted her nightmares for the past several weeks. This was a normal-looking man she might have met on the street, about five foot ten, his belly stretching his belt, his features narrow and unremarkable.

  “You’re taking me there?”

  She didn’t answer him. Holding tight to his hand, she continued forward and down.

  The closer they got, the more Frank’s world came to life. Herds of Angus cattle grazed in wide, open fields on the outskirts of the town, spruce and cottonwood trees dotting the landscape, pickup trucks and trailers parked around the outbuildings. The main street lay flanked by old brick and wood structures two to three stories tall, interspersed with a restaurant, a clothing store, a hardware store, and one grocery. On the north end of the strip rested a gas station, the creek crossing under the road. Beyond stood an old drive-in theater next to an ice cream parlor, and farther out, amid the fields, an elementary school. Tall houses lined the side streets, many with vehicles parked in the drives, old vehicles the likes of which Loreena had never seen in person, Fords and Buicks and Cadillacs that looked as if they’d been plucked from the screen of an old talkie. A black dog ran around in its backyard, a cow bellowing in a nearby barn. A horse lifted its head at the sound.

  They landed at one of the houses, coming to a standstill outside a four-foot white wooden fence. Loreena let go of Frank’s hand and looked around. The exit had to be nearby. Possibly back up Main Street? She needed to find it soon, get back to Dominic. Meanwhile, she waited, watching for demons or some other approaching horror, but the street sat quiet and peaceful, the sun fading in the early evening sky.

  Frank took a few steps forward and rested his hand on one of the fence panels, his gaze traveling up the walk to the front steps. To his right stood a skinny apple tree, anchored to the ground by a wooden post. In the grass a discarded child’s tricycle rested on its side. The lawn flowed uninterrupted to the fence line, where it was broken by two rows of blooming tulips.

  The door crashed open and a young boy burst through, a squirt gun in his hand, hair cropped short to his head and sticking up on the crown. “You can’t hide, you bum! Might as well come face me!”

  Frank’s eyes widened. “Arlen,” he said under his breath.

  Loreena looked from one to the other. “You know him?”

  “My brother.” Frank stared, his mouth open. “He’s dead.”

  The boy aimed the gun at Frank. “Better run!”

  Frank blinked but didn’t move. Arlen jogged forward, soaking Frank’s shirt, but still the man stood there dumbstruck, staring at the boy. Loreena backed up into the street, watching, her arms folded tight to her body.

  “Aw, you’re making it too easy.” Arlen pointed the gun at Frank’s face. “Fight like a man!” When Frank didn’t respond, Arlen shot him again. Water beaded up on Frank’s nose and cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said. “Arlen, I’m sorry.”

  Arlen opened the gate and walked through. “Sorrier than shit, just like Dad says.” He squirted Frank again until the man’s shirt was dripping. “Why don’t you fight? Chickenshit! Pantywaist! Big, squishy marshmallow!”

  Frank turned away from the boy.

  Arlen circled like a scraggly coyote, ragged cotton shorts tickling his knees with stray threads, dirty crew socks crumpled at his ankles. “Wimp.” He poked Frank in the ribs with the plastic toy. “Crybaby.” Poked him again in the belly. “Mama’s boy.”

  A fiery shade of red crept up Frank’s neck and moved into his jaw. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

  “Make me.” Another poke. “Or are you too scared?”

  Loreena scanned the neighborhood, taking in the trees, the paved road, the fences, the blue sky. Nearly all the houses were two stories, paint flaking on their skins, lawns roughened with the tracks of bike tires and many little feet. It was strange that amidst all the material things strewn about she saw not one other human being. No children rode up and down the street, no parents mowed the lawns, no women gossiped over the fences, no drivers coasted by with a friendly wave. The place seemed completely deserted. Loreena wondered if at night the spirits came out to pick up the fallen bicycles and slide into the abandoned cars and mount up on the waiting horses and tinker about in the cluttered backyards. Maybe that was the terror that awaited Frank.

  For a while she continued to look out, lost in her thoughts, enjoying the vision restored to her eyes. When she eventually turned back to face the house, Frank and the boy were no longer there. The gate stood open. Curious, she walked through it, hand extended in front of her by habit. When she reached the front door of the house, she heard Arlen cry out.

  “Hey, not fair!”

  A heavy thud, and then smaller footsteps running away.

  Loreena climbed the stairs and walked inside. The sun illuminated the dust flying above the couch, one decorative pillow discarded in the corner, toy army men strewn about on the dirty brown carpet. A radio played softly from the kitchen, three women singing in harmony, a family portrait on the wall adjacent to the dining room. Loreena recognized Arlen, standing in front of his parents, with a shorter but stouter brother beside him. It had to be Frank. He had been a beefy kid, with thick arms and a short neck, but the dark hair and green eyes were the same, the lips flat and lacking expression.

  Passing into the kitchen, Loreena noticed a discarded box of Corn Flakes on the table, along with a quart of milk and a plate holding a half-eaten blueberry muffin. To the right, a staircase led to the second level, the door to the backyard at its base.

  “Stop it!” Arlen complained again. Something thumped on the floor overhead. “Leave me alone!”

  “Who’s the marshmallow now, huh?”

  Loreena felt her eyes widen. That was Frank’s voice. She climbed the stairs.

  “Get off me! You’re too fat!”

  “Yeah, I’m fat, and stupid, and ugly, but I’m no damn wimp, you fuckin’ son of a bitch!”

  The sound of a slap against skin, and then a struggle. Arlen’s cries grew more urgent. Loreena arrived at a hallway, a woven rug under her feet.

  “Who’s the wimp now? Say it!”

  “Get off!”

  She hurried down the hall.


  “What are you doing? Those are mine!”

  “Want ’em? Here. You can have ’em!”

  A sound like a fist in a couch cushion. Loreena stopped, holding her breath. The boy wailed.

  She burst into the room.

  Arlen lay on his back staring at the ceiling, eyes like glass. Frank sat on top of him, spread-eagled, fist resting on the boy’s chest. Loreena glanced around, but there was no one else. Frank panted, sweat lining his forehead, a piece of hair dangling in front of his eyes. Lips parted, he gave a half smile and sat up. Then he opened his hand.

  Protruding from the boy’s chest was a pair of red-handled scissors.

  Loreena muffled her scream in her palm.

  Downstairs, a clock rang the hour, five strikes on a musical bell. By the fifth one, Frank had fallen off his brother’s body, his mouth open in horror. When the clock stopped, he stumbled to his feet and ran out of the room, slamming Loreena into the dresser as he passed.

  “Wait!” she called.

  Frank tore down the stairs.

  Loreena turned back to the boy. The scissors stood erect above his heart, little blood oozing from the clean wound. His mouth hung open, eyes wide. Dropping to his side, she reached a finger to his neck. No pulse. She pressed again, more deeply, but felt nothing. Brushing soft lashes, she shut his eyes, and then went after Frank.

  She found him running down the sidewalk toward Main Street.

  “Wait!”

  He turned right and kept running, past the café and the bank and the women’s clothing store and the lawyer’s office, his body moving clumsily, a man trying to flee as he had when he was a boy. He ran all the way to the gas station and then broke from the road and made a beeline for the creek. When Loreena caught up to him, he was wading in.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “I killed him. I killed him again!” The water came up to his waist and still he kept going. “I promised myself, if I ever got a second chance.”