Sirens shrieked shrilly outside, growing louder in their approach but going dead silent upon arrival, the cherry-tops strobing through the glass doors. She didn't see them or didn't care. I couldn't tell which.
In either case she swayed her hips with eyes squeezed shut, probably moving in a way she hadn't moved since she was a girl. I matched her rhythm and her pace, my hands finding her waist, and even when the cops stomped in and ordered the music off, we still danced to the sound of the scowling men plodding to the dance floor, the beard and I.
It Bothers Me
by Erik Arneson
Returning to my hometown wasn't in my plans when I left Los Angeles. But the next morning, after filling my beat-up F-150 at a Flying J near Albuquerque, I plugged my old address into the GPS. Didn't decide to do it, just did it. And followed the coolheaded British voice all 1,150 miles to Wilmot, South Dakota.
First thing I did there was visit Seth's grave.
Clear skies and a crescent moon kept watch as I sat under an almost-bare bur oak tree in the cemetery and talked to Seth for the better part of an hour. His gentle laughter teased me when I described how I fell in love the first time we held hands walking home from Wilmot Public School, and his strong arms cradled me when I reminisced about our first kiss as husband and wife at the altar of St. Stephen's.
As our conversation turned to the most indelible memory from our years together, the one that over time had crowded out too many of the pleasant ones, my heart ached. Choking back tears, I promised Seth for the thousandth time that justice would find the overprivileged louse who stole his life almost a decade ago.
I knelt, laid both of my hands on the top of his headstone, and whispered, "I love you, baby. I don't know when I'll be back."
Then headed to The Orange Rooster.
Seth grabs Mason by the shirt and slams his back into the wall next to the bar's dartboard, holding him in place with his forearm.
"You know who you're f-fucking with?" Mason asks, his voice trembling.
Seth grins, pleased by the fear in Mason's eyes. "I know I'm about to beat the shit out of the asshole who's trying to take my land."
"No, baby." Carolyn takes Seth's free hand. "He's not worth it. We'll win in court. Let's go."
Seth stares at Mason. "Later," he says, backing away.
Everything at The Orange Rooster was as I remembered it, right down to the french fry smell and the sticky floor. I ordered a Spearbeer, a brew produced on the other side of the state, and glanced at the familiar faces. The bartender, Matt, had been my friend since grade school. The old guy at the end of the bar used to help out at my pop's farm, and the two former jocks playing pool had each hit on me several times before I married Seth three years out of high school.
No one recognized me.
When I lived in Wilmot, I didn't stand out in any way. Average height, average weight, medium-length brown hair, brown eyes. Pretty enough, I suppose, but I always dressed to go unnoticed, jeans with a T-shirt or sweatshirt.
I moved out of my hometown a few months after Seth was killed, two weeks to the day after my 33rd birthday, when it became obvious the police would never arrest the killer. I chose L.A. because I figured it couldn't possibly remind me of Wilmot. It exceeded my expectations.
I landed a gig as a receptionist for a private investigator. After four weeks, he started sending me out—simple jobs at first, then big ones, too—so he could stay in the office and get drunk or sleep off the previous night's drunk, whichever the day called for.
Working those jobs, even if what I usually did was take photos of cheating husbands and wives, pushed me to join a gym. My body grew tighter, stronger. I liked the change and decided to make more. I cut my hair short, dyed it blonde, and got a small tattoo. Three months later, a full sleeve of ink detailing my life with Seth covered my left arm. It began at my wrist with a single red rose, my favorite because it was the first flower Seth ever gave me. On my forearm, stained-glass windows from St. Stephen's, then an alligator from our vacation in the Louisiana bayou over my biceps.
On my shoulder, Vidar—the Norse god of revenge.
My right arm remained bare.
In L.A., I also got into some scuffles. A couple could be chalked up as occupational hazards, but the others resulted from what my shrink called an inability to manage the anger I'd carried around since losing Seth. A two-inch scar across my right cheek was a permanent reminder of an incident at a downtown dive bar, and my nose was busted three separate times. I've come to appreciate the crooked look.
I was grateful to be anonymous at The Orange Rooster. When the police conducted their interviews, it would be best if the customers recalled nothing but a blonde woman with tattoos.
Unfortunately, the dirtbag I was hunting wasn't in the bar. For all I knew, Mason Bender didn't live in Wilmot anymore. Or didn't live anymore, period. That wouldn't shock me. Asking about him would blow my cover, so I sat quietly, drinking beer after beer.
When I signaled for my fourth brew, Matt asked where I'd learned to hold my drinks. For just one moment I was tempted to tell him my lessons had taken place in this very bar. Instead, I shrugged and said, "Here and there. Keep 'em coming." My confidence was more show than real. I could handle myself at five or six beers, but my reflexes would be too far gone after seven or eight. Mason had to show up soon.
Approaching her home at the end of a quarter-mile driveway, Carolyn squints against the setting sun and spots a figure standing at the bottom of the steps leading to the front porch.
"Is that…damn it all," she says aloud, though she's alone in the pickup. "What the hell is he doing here?"
She hits the brakes, slams her truck into park, and sprints toward the unwelcome guest.
A few sips into Spearbeer number five, Mason arrived. And damn if he didn't grab himself a stool two away from me. My first reaction surprised me: genuine pleasure that the bastard wasn't already dead. Until right then, I hadn't realized how much I needed to be the one who killed him.
My second reaction was to feel a knot twist up in my stomach when Mason's cold black eyes locked onto mine. Was that a glimmer of recognition? I told myself it was simply plain old lust.
"Hey, Matt," he said to the bartender. "Who's the new girl?"
Matt glanced at me. "Ask her yourself."
So he did. He said his name was Mason, I told him my name was Summer, he asked where I'd been hiding all these years, I said I was passing through on my way from California to the East Coast.
"Well, Miss California Summer, how 'bout I buy this round?"
"That," I said with a smile so sweet it made me sick, "would be very nice."
Mason moved his muscular body one stool closer so our arms and legs touched, then moved closer yet. He looked good and smelled good, enough for many of the women in Wilmot, given the limited options.
Matt brought him a Corona, and we drank and talked about dumb shit of his choosing: sports, pickup trucks, his fondness for my ink. I kept putting my hand on his arm, stroking it, and he finished two brews to my one, a decent ratio.
"You know what I'm thinking?" I asked.
"What's that, sugar?" His grin made it plain as plain can be that he was thinking exactly what I wanted him to think.
"I'm in the market for a place to stay tonight, darling. I'm in no shape to drive, and I haven't passed a motel for hours."
"No motels 'round here," he said. "Not many choices for the weary traveler."
I slid my hand up his arm to his shoulder, tilted my head, and ran my tongue across my lips. "Got any ideas? I wouldn't be a speck of trouble."
"You're welcome at my place," he said. "It ain't much, but it has a king-size bed..." He grinned and let the sentence trail off.
"Sounds perfect. Why don't you have one last beer while I go freshen up?"
"Don't make me wait too long."
I put my fingers on his lips and said, "Don't you worry about that."
In the bathroom, I washed up and stared into the
mirror. I was ready.
"Pretty sure Seth told you to stay the hell off our property," Carolyn says through gritted teeth.
Mason spins toward her suddenly, apparently startled by her approach. Eyes wild, he spits onto the dirt, a mix of saliva, blood, and a tooth. "Seth? Your goddamn Seth won't be tellin' me what to do no more."
He climbs into his bright red Silverado 3500. The tires spread gravel as he races away.
Carolyn screams, "Seth!" and runs inside.
"How far to your place?" I asked, sitting in the passenger seat of Mason's pickup.
"Not far, sugar."
"Good. I can't wait to get out of these clothes."
He smiled at that.
On the way out of town we drove past Jean's Bridal, where I bought my wedding dress; the Wilmot Enterprise, where our engagement announcement was printed… Too many memories. I had to focus.
When Mason pulled into a long driveway about five minutes later, my heart jumped into my throat. He was heading to Seth's family home, the place we had lived the entire twelve years of our marriage. I had cleared out of town in a hurry and asked Maynard Auctioneers to sell off the house and land. When they forwarded the payment, I didn't inquire about the new owner. Now, it took everything in me to keep a poker face.
"How long you lived here?" I asked.
"Eight years. Sad story. Girl I used to know packed up after her husband died. I won the house at auction a few months after that."
"I can't wait to try out that big ol' bed of yours," I said, putting my hand on his thigh. "I like to have room to operate."
"I bet you do."
Mason was taking the gravel driveway too fast. As we passed the barn on the left, the house still 100 feet in front of us, he slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded to a stop. He backhanded me square in the face. "Not the nose," I muttered, but had no doubt it was cracked for the fourth time.
"What the fuck you tryin' to pull?" he asked.
"I'm not a big fan of the rough stuff, but if that's what you're into, we can talk about it," I said, blotting the blood dripping out of my nose with the back of my arm.
"Drop it, Carolyn. I knew it was you the minute you spoke. A couple tattoos, a scar, and bleached hair ain't gonna hide you." He took a breath. "I figured you as smarter than this. You should've stayed in California, or wherever the hell you were."
I thought about punching him in the throat, but I didn't have a good angle. My gun was in my purse on the floor, but if I reached for that, he'd knock me out before I sat back up. So I yanked on the door handle and dove…straight into the still-closed door. My head bounced off the window.
He grinned. "I had that lock childproofed. You have no idea how often that comes in handy on dates."
"I can guess."
"Want to guess what happens now?"
I said nothing.
"Ma'am, I sympathize, but as I've told you before, there's not enough evidence to charge anyone."
"Not enough… Are you fucking kidding me? How about his blood, his tooth? The tire prints?"
The Roberts County deputy sheriff on the phone replies in a perfectly level tone: "Those could have been left there anytime, ma'am. We need more."
"You mean you need more to charge the goddamn son of Senator Jack Bender. Fucking coward, that's what you are. Motherfucking cowards. All of you."
"Ma'am, I think it would be best if you calm down. And stop calling. I'll be in touch if there's any news on the case."
Mason opened his door, grabbed my wrist, and yanked me out of the truck. He led me up a small hill and into the upper floor of the bank barn that Seth's grandfather had built. The moon and the pickup's headlamps provided the only light so I couldn't make out much. But unless he'd made renovations, I knew every corner of this barn by heart.
Inside, he shoved me onto my knees. The wood planks groaned beneath my weight.
"What's your big plan, Mason?"
"It's a wonderful thing, living this far out. You can scream and scream and no one will hear you. That was the best part of killing Seth, the screams before I finally pulled the trigger. I still dream about that night. Good dreams."
"Go to hell."
"Suppose you're right to hate me. Question is, will you hate me more for what I've done or what I'm gonna do?"
I didn't answer. Didn't plan to let him do anything.
He snatched a rope off the wall and approached me. I started to stand. "You stay right where you are," he said, "or this'll be extra painful."
He walked behind me, pulled my arms behind my back, and looped the rope around my hands in tight circles.
"Does it bother you that you're going to be killed by the same man who killed your precious Seth?"
"Don't you say his name."
He laughed as he finished tying off the rope. "I like your spirit. Always have. It's a shame you chose him over me. We could've had a great life, you and me."
He paused. In the silence, I sensed his rage growing.
"Now get off your sweet ass," he said, lifting me to my feet and pushing me forward, deeper into the unlit barn. "You'll see Seth soon. We have time for a little fun first, don't ya think, sugar?" He licked my cheek and laughed. Chills ran down my spine. "This'll be nice. You ever had a real honest-to-God roll in the hay?"
As we neared the rectangular bales stacked high against the far wall, the floorboards dipped beneath my feet. Behind me, he had a strong grip on the rope between my hands. I took one quick step forward, jumped into the air, and pushed off the hay with both feet. Mason grunted three times. First, when I was in the air. Second, when I sprung off the hay and my back slammed into his chest, knocking him to the floor. Third, when the floorboards splintered and we plunged through them into the darkness toward the concrete floor that waited patiently below.
When we landed, I heard the beautiful thudding sound of every last bit of air being knocked out of his body.
Even more beautiful was the unexpected gurgling when he couldn't breathe it back in.
I rolled away and he didn't attempt to stop me. I scrambled to my knees and faced him. His head lifted spastically as his chest convulsed, desperate for oxygen. His eyes blinked frantically.
Behind his head, I could make out Seth's name on the wooden handle of a familiar tool. He'd landed on the bow rake I gave Seth as a present when we moved to the farm. The metal tines must've punctured both his lungs. Based on the amount of blood spreading out from beneath his body, maybe his heart as well.
I caught my breath as I watched Mason stop trying to catch his.
When it was done and I was certain he could gain no satisfaction from my confession, I said, "Yes, it bothers me." Those words opened the door to emotions I'd been holding back since leaving the cemetery. When the tears ended, I said, "It bothers me that you killed Seth, you monster. But it no longer bothers me that you got away with it."
I found a hacksaw that had belonged to Seth's grandfather hanging on the wall in the same place it had always been. With some effort, I managed to cut through the rope and free my hands.
Outside, I paused to take in the stars. Never seen anything prettier than the South Dakota sky at night.
I parked Mason's truck several buildings away from The Orange Rooster. Main Street was quiet other than the distant thump-thump of the bass line from a country song playing on the bar's jukebox. I pulled some tissues from my purse and wiped off the steering wheel, the door handle, anything I might've touched. I put the keys above his visor.
When I walked back into the bar, Matt looked me over like my pop used to when I got hurt playing sports.
"Back so soon?" he asked. "Mason didn't charm the pants off you?"
"Turns out we're not compatible."
"That can happen with Mason. Another Spearbeer?" He wiped off the bar in front of me with a wet rag.
"Matt, you know who I am, don't you?"
"Ma'am, I'm a bartender in a tiny little town. I don't know a damn thing. Now, you want another Spearbear, Carol
yn?"
"Yeah." I nodded and smiled a little. "One for the road."
I finished the beer and left Matt a big tip.
Outside the bar, I settled into my F-150 and said farewell to my hometown for the final time.
Blood Makes the Grass Grow
by Bracken MacLeod
Sam watched the old man lean over to inspect the deep wound. Despite the severity of the gash in her haunch, the dog was reasonably calm under the veterinarian's hands. She didn't try to scramble off the examination table or even nip or bark. Instead, she sat whining softly as he tended to her. Gina had been a perfect patient ever since Sam and Callie Cooper, her owners, had started bringing her to the clinic as a puppy. By contrast, to say Sam and Callie were agitated was putting it mildly.
"She'll be fine," Pickett reassured them, reaching for a bottle of saline. "This'll be the hardest part 'cause the cut's so deep. Gonna have to get in there. As soon as I'm satisfied we got 'er properly cleaned out, then we'll staple it right up. Before you go, I'll write you a scrip for antibiotics you can have filled over at the Walgreens. Even call it in for you if you want."
Pickett spoke slowly and articulately, enunciating every syllable as carefully as one would expect from a man who'd managed his own rehab after a stroke. Aside from a slightly lazy eye on the right side, he showed almost no sign. He deliberately chose his words, but he also was showing his age. Sam's father had introduced him to Dr. Pickett maybe twenty-five years ago, and he was old back then.
Standing in the low-ceilinged doublewide that served as his veterinary clinic, Pickett looked diminished. Stooped and tired, as though his advancing age was costing him size. He was a tough guy from a family of tough guys. His thick, scarred hands showed it. But every year robbed him of another inch, another five pounds, until eventually, Sam imagined, the man would become so old there would be nothing left of him but a whisper.
THUGLIT Issue Sixteen Page 5