by Will Mosley
Ka-blam!
A distant mist of black birds hurriedly flapped to safety. Trees swayed, their joints and trunks cracked noisily as if they, too, were trying to escape. The serenity was broken.
The gunfire came from deep in the woods and was so sudden, so thunderously loud, he shook and dropped the cream cheese side of the bagel onto his bacon. He quickly jumped up, threw on a light jacket, slipped into his boots, grabbed a field knife from the junk drawer, and headed into the woods.
From a distance of 20 yards, he heard the naying of a deer – a deer that had been wounded, not killed. Xoscha turned to Howard when the crackling of undergrowth signaled his approach.
“I got him, dad!”
“Xosh,” Howard whined. “I told you not –,”
“But, dad, I really wanted to. The guys at school told me how to be safe with a gun. See?” Xoscha had the rifled pointed at the ground and a worried smile on his face.
Howard sighed. There was nothing he could say to the boy besides, 'You need to obey me.' But, boys are curious and deep down, because of his refusals, he knew that this day was coming.
He stepped into a small clearing where Xoscha stood ten feet from his conquest. The deer's thigh had been busted open as if it had exploded from within. Howard stood beside his son for a moment and watched the deer swing its forelegs in a feeble attempt to escape or defend itself. Then, Howard took one large step back and dug his hands deep into his pockets.
“What now? Do we skin it? You'll show me how to skin it? I wanna do it myself, ya know. You just walk me through –,”
“You're not finished here, boy. You can't skin a living deer. That's just cruel. And the way he's flailing, he'll probably kick your ass before you can cut him.”
“So...” Xoscha said. Howard could sense the boy didn't know what to do next.
“So, you need to finish the job.”
“Finish the job?” Xoscha asked, confused. “Finish the –,” and like a lamp switching on in his head, he knew what 'Finish the job' meant, and the boy's eyes widened with enlightenment – then sank in fear. Keeping the gun pointed at the ground, he handed it to Howard. Howard leaned away from it.
“No, sir. I didn't shoot that deer. He's your property now. What? You don't want to do it?”
“Well, I just thought that –,”
“You thought wrong, whatever it was. If you're man enough to shoot the damn thing, be man enough to finish what you start. And hurry up! That thing's suffering.”
Once more, he shoved the gun at Howard. “But, I don't want –,”
“Finish the job, boy! Right now!” Howard raised his voice in frustration, not anger, and stepped back further so that he wouldn't be an easy escape for the boy's responsibility.
Xoscha breathed deep and his thin chest rose with his inhalation. When he exhaled, he trained the barrel of the gun on the deer's head and held it there. Large globules of tears dropped down his cheeks and in a shaky voice he said, “I really don't want to do this, dad.”
“Too late, Xosh. You'll remember this the next time you –,”
Immediately, Howard's words could not flow from his mouth and they felt caught in his lungs like square children's blocks forced through the wrong hole. His eyes bulged and his limbs felt heavy and frozen, and only five words were allowed to escape his mouth. “Xosh, what are you doing?”
Xoscha said nothing.
“Okay son, listen, please don't do this. W-we'll... I'll take you in the woods more often, okay?” Howard said, still speaking softly, but into the wide barrel of the 30/06 which slightly modulated his voice.
“If I just kill you, I don't have to kill this deer. That sounds like a plan to me. How about you? You get to join mom. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” The boy's face glowed so red hot, the moisture of the tears seemed to evaporate, leaving a chalky residue trail.
“This isn't the way I foresaw the reunion of your mother and I, son. Please... Just –,”
Xosh trained the gun on his father a little longer because he spotted something in its naked form that he hadn't intended on seeing. Fear. Howard, a god to Xoscha, a man who could do anything and was the very definition of strength, was now frightened of his youngest son. Xoscha had power, now. Xoscha was a man, now. Xoscha was a god and everything would change from that day forward.
The boy quickly swung the gun around, barely aimed and fired into the deer's skull. The naying died out under the echos of gunfire in the distance. He marched away from the corpse and back up the hill to the house.
“You've killed it now. Good work.” Howard said, sprinkling his voice with artificial strength. “Now drag it home and we'll skin it together.”
Xoscha continued walking and didn't so much as slow down to his father's demands. Then, said, “You do it. I don't want the fucking deer, now.”
With no hope of returning to the once strong figure in his son's eye's, he sent Xoscha to live with his aunt Rebecca and uncle Lemual, south of Atlanta.
***
When her face twisted as she looked back to him before collapsing to the floor, he knew something was terribly wrong. It didn't twist in pain, though, there was plenty of painful grimacing on her dimly lit face. The twisting was of ignorance, as though she had no clue how he knew she'd run at that very moment. Not the 'Oh crap! He figured me out.' look, which is what he expected. But she was the one, he was sure of it. Well, sort of sure. Well... he just didn't know anymore. Why did she ask those questions at the kitchen table if she wasn't? Could they have just been conversation starters? Did she really mean him no harm?
Xoscha thought he knew better, thought that he had worked this out to a science, but quickly the situation reminded him of a similar incident two days ago, another situation a day before that, and a festering mound of similar situations currently in the basement.
She laid on the floor with her head cocked upward, cheek against the wall, legs splayed and a gaping bloody hole on the back of her right knee, evident only by its oily percolation against the faint light. He walked over, knelt down beside her, wound up a handful of bleached blonde hair and yanked her head back even further. Popping vertebra crunched and snapped under the skin as her neck passed its natural bend. He put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, like a father comforting his daughter,
“I know you can hear me in there. I – I think I might have made a mistake. I'm starting to think that you're probably not who I thought you were, okay? So, let's just get up and I'll get you some Band-Aids or something for that injury, okay?” He paused and waited for a response. “Okay? Does that sound good? Just nod your head if you – if you want to do that.” He leaned back from her so that he would be able to see her limp head nod, when and if she agreed. She didn't agree, nor did she nod. He released her hair and let her head plop against the wall. “Shit!”
The fact that Erica didn't produce naying sounds made finishing the job that much easier. With no delay between thought and action, Xoscha reached down, grabbed her hair, twisted it into a firm hold, put the warm suppression tipped barrel of the pistol to her temple and fired.
Dad would be proud.
With Erica's hair tied into a knot around his fist, he jerked her limp body down the stairs. At first, it seemed that her body weight would have carried her down without his assistance, but she was far too light with not enough 'ass' to gather momentum. Once at the bottom, with her torso faced down and face turned halfway over her right shoulder, throwing a death stare up at Xoscha, he pulled her through the living room and into the kitchen. By memorization alone, he opened the basement door, looked down into the darkness and the putrid odor of warmed feces and rotting flesh slapped him, almost knocking him down. He grunted, took a deep breath of it, savored it, and then walked into the ink black cellar without hesitance.
He had never gotten use to the basement and still didn't know its exact layout. Though, turning on the light down here might have been the only safe light in the house to use, it still was a weighed risk that didn't pr
ove to be of any worth. What if the light from the basement cast a glow into the kitchen? Then they'd know where he was and know how to best plan their strategy against him. He grunted again at the smell, trying to push it from his lungs. Then, he placed one foot forward, turned his torso, leaving the arm that dragged Erica's lifeless body behind him and in one clean jerk, threw her into a corner in the blackness. On his fingers, the feeling of fine cob webs lingered. He knew it was Erica's hair and brushed it to the floor.
He wondered if his fear of the people who were after him was the reason he kept the basement light off. But wondering wasn't needed because he knew it was only half the reason. It was bad enough that he had to live with himself and with the thoughts that 'they' with their unlimited resources, would never give up trying to get him. It was making him crazy and he knew it. It was one thing to be crazy and then tell the world that you were sane. But, when you knew you were crazy, when you knew what sane was and you were far from it, it feverishly forced him to seek sanity. Their hot desire to get him was what he had to live with, but did he really want to see what was in the basement, see what he had done and the scale on which he had done it? Wouldn't that push him past the point of knowing insanity and into its backward realm where he no longer knew the difference?
The blackness was his only friend because it protected him from them, and himself. Besides, the smell of thirty-one dead bodies, bodies of one man – his wife and one child – and twenty-eight dead prostitutes, was starting to become... relaxing, as the default scent of his new home. A comforting fragrance emitted by the darkness, constantly reminding him, 'Your secrets are safe with me.' A smell as distinct and inviting as – potpourri.
Chapter 11.
Ken watched Tanner for a moment longer before speaking, puzzled at his reaction to the falling mug, but more befuddled about why he had not relinquished his grip on the collar of his jacket – though sweat glistened on his forehead in beads under the dining room light. “You'll have to teach me that trick.”
“What trick?” he said as he placed the mug on the table. “It's no trick. I just didn't want your family to be woken by this thing.”
“Shhh!” Ken said, looking toward the stairs. Tanner turned around and both men stood motionless, waiting for something. They heard footsteps over head, then a door open. Then,
“Mommy!” The footsteps faded into another room.
“That's Lainy.” Ken whispered.
“Light sleeper, I presume.” Tanner said.
“Come on, honey.” Another voice grumbled from upstairs. “I don't know where your dad is.”
“Mary?” Tanner Whispered. Ken nodded.
“Ken! You down there?” Mary yelled.
“Yeah, hon. I'm here.”
“Okay. Lainy's in here with me.”
Ken took Tanner's cup, placed in the sink, got another mug from the cupboard and filled it with coffee. Tanner had already sat back down and wiped his brow.
“Is it hot in here, Tanner?” Ken asked and carefully sat the mug on the table.
“Thanks, Ken. No. It's no warmer than usual.” Tanner looked at his hand as he prepared to rid himself of more sweat. “Oh! You see the sweat and thought –,” Tanner shrugged. “I'm fine, Ken.”
“Because I can turn the heat down if –,”
Tanner shook his head. “No need. Not on my account.”
With both hands wrapped around his coffee mug, Ken stared at his brother from across the table. Tanner had huddled himself around the mug and, after blowing away the head of hot vapor, took long, loud sips.
Tanner was an utterly unrecognizable man compared to the boy that left the community twenty years ago. Then, he had no facial hair and no fine sprigs of hair saplings, and yet, there it was, as if someone had knotted up a wig, cut a mouth hole into it and pasted it to Tanner's face. Back then, his face was soft – almost feminine and unblemished from not having gone through the years of acne that most teens had – and his demeanor was gentle and lighthearted. Now, the man that sat before Ken looked beaten and highly-strung. Premature wrinkles had sliced his face, dividing it into regions, giving him the appearance of a man only eight to ten years younger than his own father.
“So, Tanner, what's the story?” Ken asked.
Tanner looked up from his mug, his eyes questioning and wide. He swallowed his coffee with an audible gulp. “The story?” He asked, hoping that Ken had forgotten, but realizing that they hadn't seen each other in so long that there was no way he'd forget.
“Yeah, man! What have you been up to?”
Tanner hoped for another disruption, an intrusion maybe. Maybe Mary would come down stairs, after smelling the coffee, and fix herself a cup. Maybe Lainy couldn't sleep and would come down to tell her dad how her day went. Then, Ken would introduce him to her and yet another topic of conversation would eat up precious time and 'the story' could wait until some other time when Ken's judging eyes would be softer, less scornful – less like Lee Garay's eyes.
“The story,” Tanner cleared his throat. “Right.” He took another sip of his coffee, swished it around his mouth and swallowed.
“I remember that my band was scheduled to play McElhaney's pub the night of your high school graduation. I think that I saw you there.” Ken scratched his head and shook it. “I think we might have talked. I don't know.”
Tanner laughed. “We did talk, Ken, right before you took the stage. You were high on something, so we didn't get too deep in conversation.”
“Then, that's why I don't remember. Start from there.”
“Okay. Well, I was already accepted to Georgia Tech and –,”
“So you were actually going to go there?” Ken blurted out.
“That's what the old man wanted. Hell, he was paying for it. I figured at least I'd get an education out of it and keep him off my back.”
“Suck up.” Ken said and smiled, raising the coffee cup to his lips. “What did he do about my part of his 'educational fund' he set aside for us?”
“You haven't asked him?” Tanner asked.
“How do you ask your dad, a grown man, if he still has your money for college? He helped us get this house, so I didn't really care about the college money.” Ken said. Tanner knew from the unblinking stare that Ken was giving him that he did indeed care about the whereabouts of that money.
“Well, he gave me all of it in hopes that I would get a Bachelors.”
Ken lowered his cup in shock. “$150,000?”
“All of it.” Tanner said. Ken sat is cup down and gripped the edges of the table as if to support himself.
“Hold on. He did, at least, dole it out to you a little at a time, right?”
Tanner shook his head. “Nope. Dad had never been to college, Ken. I guess he thought that if he just gave it to me then I'd take it to the school and, in return, I'd get four years of education.” Tanner laughed drearily at the thought. “Maybe insert it into a vending machine slot and a degree would pop out with my name on it. I don't know what he was thinking. I didn't know either.”
Ken rolled his eyes and picked up his coffee. “That's a lot of money, Tanner.”
“Don't I know it. So, I start at Tech in August of '92. I had prepared for my classes in advance so I had no difficulty with the first semester coursework. And because I had spent so much time making sure that I was prepared, not to piss off Lee, I had neglected the other benefits of college life.”
“Such as?”
“Girls. My God, man, they were everywhere. And not like the girls we went to school with. These chicks were rich and hot! It was like they were begging to get laid.” Tanner's malaise had disappeared as he recounted his college days. “I started partying with these guys from Buckhead and they knew where all the hottest girls were. Either we went to them and partied in Buckhead, or they came to us. We were constantly drunk and getting laid. My grades were great, I was having fun and I was getting as much pussy as I could handle!” As if a black cloud had moved directly over the Georgia Tech campus
in his mind, his malaise returned. “Then, in December of that year, just before finals, I met this chick. Gorgeous – long legs, sandy-blond, beautiful gray eyes – she becomes interested in me. The thing is, she tells me she's into Cocaine. She says it helps her with her studies. Well, we study together for finals, I try coke for the first time and love it, and that's the beginning of where everything falls apart. She has a dealer that she knows in Dunwoody that supplies us with everything.” Tanner slapped his forehead with his palm. “I, being a chivalrous idiot, didn't even think to ask her how she knows him and how he's supplying her with coke, start buying it. I wouldn't even allow her to spend her money. Not me! Rich man Tanner, buying Coke with his dad’s money.” Guilt stopped him and he looked off into a corner of the ceiling as if watching events from his past play out on a tiny screen over Ken's head.
“$150,000 worth of Coke?”
“Damn near.” Tanner said, not taking his eyes from the past. “I was such an idiot.”
“We all make mistakes. No reason to beat yourself up over something that happened so long ago.”
Tanner scoffed. “Yeah. Mistakes.” He returned his eyes to Ken. “Not this big. So, by January, after I realized I had missed registration, I started to panic. Not only could I not attend Tech in the spring, not only was I down to about $80,000, but mom and dad are calling me saying that they're getting letters in the mail reminding me to register for Spring. So now they know that I haven't registered.”
“Did they check up on it?”
“No. I wish they had, now. No, I just told them that the school was so use to people paying by student loans that they continued to send letters to the students who paid cash... because that's how their system functioned. They believed it and didn't follow up. I had the registrar’s office send any mail to my campus mailbox to keep mom and dad off my trail. At that point I have to make sure I register for summer classes when that registration period comes around, but I have to rebuild dad's money supply, too. So, I get a job. Not just any old job at a McDonald's, or the in the school library. I needed quick money. This girl's dealer offered me a job delivering dope to Houston. All I had to do was drive his pick-up truck to Houston, drop it off in a parking garage, pick up another truck and drive it back. For my troubles, I earned $1,000 per delivery. At four deliveries per month, I'd be well on my way recouping the money for my education. But –,”