Blood Will Out

by Jo Treggiari

  “He went willingly,” Ma said.

  I remember the furious struggle, the whining and heartrending yelps as Captain fought to free himself from the rope staked in the ground. The piteous look in his eyes, tail forlornly wagging, and the whiplash crack of the gun. But I said nothing.

  “Don’t know anything about the boy who dunnit to her,” Pa Cosloy said. “He quit town fast enough after she made it known.”

  Ma stared out at the dusty brown fields, but she seemed to be looking past them. My shirt collar was too tight and itched at my neck but I ignored it. Ma hated when I fidgeted, said it made her feel jumpy.

  “You were just a little bit of a thing when we came down to the foster home. Scrawny for your age. Always sitting in a corner away from the rest of the children, clutching at a book though you had no idea how to read.”

  “Most of the time you were holding it upside down,” Pa said. This was the closest he’d ever got to making a humorous remark in my hearing. “You never smiled. Never cried neither.”

  Ma cleared her throat and Pa went back to worrying his worn wool cap between his fingers.

  “Fussing never amounted to anything,” she said firmly. “Better to trust in God, put your head down and trudge on.”

  “Blood will out,” Pa muttered.

  I dared a question.

  “What was her name?”

  “Who?”

  “My ma.”

  “She was never your ma,” Ma Cosloy said sharply. “I told you that….Never paid you no mind except when she was mad about something and then she paid you plenty.”

  Pa put his hand up and Ma closed her mouth with a snap.

  “Gwendoline Maddox,” Pa said, finally. “Big old name for a tiny slip of a girl.”

  “Gwendoline,” I sighed. It sounded like a name from a book.

  * * *

  I wished so hard that I could recall her. My body did. The fractures up and down my arms and across my collarbone, they remembered. And the pain I sometimes felt in my feet, where the skin grew hard and tough over old steam-iron burns. Her touch was emblazoned on my flesh but I couldn’t picture her face.

  She must have seen me as some pathetic thing that took from her. And so she beat me and shook me and eventually she robbed me of my colors.

  When I was fifteen—the same age she was when she had me—I tracked her down. It wasn’t hard. I used one of the computers at the coffee shop where I was bussing tables and washing dishes and googled her. Her name and the small town where she lived popped up. I’d have had to pay for a background check to get her full street address and I didn’t bother. Gwendoline Maddox is not a common name, and most people never stray too far from the area where they were born and raised. I found her no more than fifty miles from the burned husk of the Cosloy farm, in Roseville, a town that was barely bigger than a truck stop. I hitchhiked there; it took all day. Asked around at the gas station and was told that, in fact, Gwen had worked at the truck stop, when she wasn’t working at the bar, heh heh. The man who told me this was short and red-faced with a belly that sat on his belt like a sack of flour, and he waggled his eyebrows when he spoke the last part of the sentence but I didn’t get his meaning. It was only later that I realized he’d been saying my mother was a whore. Something Ma and Pa Cosloy had told me too, in a different way.

  She may have been a slut but she didn’t waitress anymore, nor did she spend time at the bar.

  It didn’t come up when I searched for her on the Internet. If it had, I wouldn’t have bothered making the trip, dangerous as it was. I had changed my appearance drastically, growing my hair long and dyeing it brown. I’d shot up a couple of inches and I’d even chosen a new name for myself. I went unnoticed most of the time, but still there was the risk that someone local might recognize me.

  Her name wasn’t Maddox any longer. Just recently she’d gotten married and changed it to Braverman—Gwendoline Braverman. And that’s how the newspaper had listed her. Though the marriage had only lasted a few months, I guess she’d wanted to make afresh start. That hadn’t worked out too well for her.

  My mother was dead. Carcinoid tumor, the obituary said. When I found out, I was cognizant of extreme disappointment. Once the hues began to bleed from my world and I knew there was nothing anyone could do about it, I’d dreamed of slicing her up myself and taking her heart as a keepsake.

  So perhaps I could blame her for everything that had happened and was going to happen. And maybe I could thank her for it as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ari felt numb. The drive in the police car had been a blur; then a bustle of activity at the hospital—a nurse poking and prodding, checking every inch of her body, including between her legs, bandaging her head; a lady cop, Officer Tremblay, taking her clothes as part of evidence collection; Dr. Elliott performing a series of tests to determine the severity of her head injury. She’d even asked if there had been any sexual assault. Ari had violently shaken her head, cracking open the pain again. At least she’d been spared that.

  “She has a concussion,” Dr. Elliott told her parents. “No sign of permanent trauma, though sometimes a head injury can lead to ocular migraines later on. If her headache becomes severe, or she has vomiting or a seizure, bring her back immediately and we’ll do a CT scan. She was lucky.”

  Lucky? Ari had almost dissolved into tears right then.

  “She might have some trouble sleeping because of trauma-related shock. Keep an eye on her and try to keep her fed and hydrated and calm. The more normal things are for her, the better. She may have some short-term memory loss,” she continued. “If she does experience any pain, double the usual dose of acetaminophen. She’s young and healthy; shouldn’t be any problems.”

  “You can darkroom her for a couple of days until she begins to feel more like herself,” the nurse said. She had very small hands and feet, like a child’s, Ari had thought, though she’d avoided looking at the latex gloves the woman wore. What was it about the rubber covering that made hands look paw-like, inhuman?

  “Darkroom?” her mother asked, helping Ari slip on the change of clothing she’d brought with her.

  “Yes. If you can, block the windows in her bedroom with blackout blinds.”

  Ari imagined the darkness of the well, the feeling that the walls were closing in on her. She swore she’d sleep with the light on if she managed to sleep at all.

  Now she sat in the chilly police station, covered by a thin blanket they gave to unfortunate people like her, bracketed by her parents. The blanket smelled strongly of detergent but there were underlying odors of tomato soup and hair and it made her feel a little nauseated. Her parents had argued against her being brought in for questioning immediately, but after Dr. Elliott okayed it, they’d conceded.

  “Ari,” her mother said gently. “Can you answer the question?”

  With effort, Ari focused her attention.

  “So you moved the body?” Captain Rourke asked. “Sorkin Sigurson’s body.” Ari had to think for a moment. Oh yeah, that was Sourmash’s real name.

  Ari looked at her mother and father and then at her hands; she’d washed them repeatedly but the tattered nails were still filthy, gummed with gore and flecks of white paint. She’d picked at her cuts until they oozed but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from doing it. In the station bathroom, her wounded eyes had stared back from the mirror and found her unrecognizable, this creature with tear-grimed cheeks and horror trapped in her gaze.

  “Ari,” her mother said again. Raising her head, she became aware that they were all looking expectantly at her.

  “You moved him?” Captain Rourke asked again, his tone sharp. Ari flinched. Although she had done nothing wrong, he made her feel guilty.

  “Yeah. So I could drive the truck.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded mechanical and guarded. The last time she’d seen the police chief he’d been with his son, Jack, on the sidelines of the school spirit rally. Jack had been yelling obscenities at the players on
the other school’s team, including some attacks on their masculinity. She remembered his dad thumping him on the shoulder in a manner that seem more amused than anything else. Jack had never been seriously punished for the pornographic photos he’d tacked all over Lynn’s locker, although he’d boasted about it plenty. Just a week’s suspension and some community service. Of course, this had happened before Lynn’s mother became the school principal.

  “Can you give us any idea where the cabin is located? Any landmarks?”

  “Umm…I didn’t notice…fields…it was dark. I just drove.”

  Captain Rourke tapped his pen on the desk. He looked annoyed.

  “You drove for about twenty or thirty minutes, you think? That’s a pretty big area for us to cover. I’ve got my men out there looking but…” He sighed.

  Ari didn’t know what to say. He seemed to be blaming her.

  “And where was the gun?”

  “It was propped up on the dashboard. It fell when I—” She flashed on the memory of Sourmash’s shattered head. The gore. His eye hanging from a few threads like some kind of gelatinous aquatic creature. Her brain had perfectly preserved the images and seemed intent on showing them to her over and over again in sharp staccato bursts. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright. A headache pulsed behind her temples and the two painkillers she’d dry-swallowed in the squad car were doing nothing to ease the agony.

  She drew a deep breath and tried to compose herself. She pulled the woolen hat her mother had given her further down over her ears and wished she could crawl inside it.

  “The gun fell on the floor of the truck,” she said.

  “Did you touch it?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember. Maybe.”

  “Why does that matter? He killed himself, didn’t he?” her father interjected. “Ari found him like that.”

  “There were no prints on the gun. None. Not even Sorkin’s,” the captain said.

  “So it wasn’t suicide?”

  Captain Rourke shook his head. His eyes fastened on Ari’s face. Her father followed his gaze.

  “You’re not suggesting…” He was half out of his chair in an instant.

  Captain Rourke held up both hands. “She was checked at the hospital. No powder burns on her fingers.”

  “So what are you saying then?” her father growled.

  “She’s a witness. The only one, at present,” Captain Rourke said. “You need to allow me to do my job.”

  “Ari had nothing to do with it! She’s the victim here.”

  Ari quivered. Her nerves zinged like strings on a guitar, wound too tight. She couldn’t concentrate. Her surroundings kept graying out and their voices coagulated into buzzy background noise.

  “That could well be, but I still need to ask these questions,” Captain Rourke said. “This is a criminal investigation.”

  Her father goggled at him, the veins standing out in his neck.

  “Ari only needs one parent present during questioning,” the police chief said. “I could tell you to wait outside, Bill.”

  “Bill, for God’s sake!” her mother said, pointing to his chair.

  Captain Rourke flipped a couple of pages back. “We sent a uniformed police officer round your way to ask a few questions. Your neighbor, Mrs. Fisk, said she saw you at approximately 2:30 p.m. on Friday, alone, walking toward the town center.” Mrs. Fisk was a total curtain-twitcher; she knew everyone’s comings and goings.

  “Do you remember anything about that, honey?” her mom asked.

  “I went to the library to look some stuff up.” She thought about mentioning the subject of her research, but Sourmash was dead, so what did it matter now?

  “And afterward?” Captain Rourke said, making a note of it.

  Ari shook her head.

  There was nothing to say to this. Whatever else she might have planned on doing that day was forgotten, irrelevant. She’d been taken. Sourmash must have snatched her off the street.

  “It’s a blank,” she said.

  “So, just to bookend the times, you were last seen on Friday afternoon at 2:30 p.m. and you called your parents this morning at approximately 8:30 a.m.,” Captain Rourke said. “That’s eighteen hours to account for.” The pen hovered above the page. He seemed to be waiting for her to confirm but her mind was empty.

  Once again she just shook her head. “I was in the cistern.”

  “We should have known something was wrong,” her mother said, stroking Ari’s hand. “It’s our job to look after you.”

  Her words pierced Ari’s heart. No one could possibly know when something bad was going to happen, because if they did, then they would safeguard against it. She’d heard about people being stalked, kidnapped and hurt, and the stories had made her sick, but at the same time, part of her had wondered how someone could end up in that situation. Like, how much was their own fault?

  Captain Rourke was talking again. “There were some photos found in Sigurson’s truck.” He placed his hand on a white-labeled, sealed plastic baggie. “Did you notice them?”

  “No. There was a heap of garbage on the floor, magazines and cans and stuff. The gun fell down there.” Ari tried to look at them now but the captain covered the bag with his palm.

  Her mouth was so dry, her tongue stuck to the roof. “Are they of me?” She couldn’t remember anything. She was unsure about everything. And she must have keeled over a little because she felt her mother’s hand tighten around her arm.

  “For God’s sake, Fred!” Ari’s dad yelled. “What are you trying to do? She’s not a criminal.”

  “Sit down, Bill,” the captain said.

  Her father sat on the edge of his chair.

  “They’re candids”—Captain Rourke stressed the word—“of the same group of kids. Some individual shots of kids at the swimming hole. Girls. Boys.”

  “Is Ari one of them?” her mother asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ari’s dad pushed away from the desk and bolted to his feet, knocking over his chair.

  “So he was spying on our daughter and doing God knows what. Why weren’t you onto him?”

  “He hadn’t done anything illegal.”

  “Abduction, kidnapping. And what about the animal killings? This seems right in line with that.”

  “That’s a separate case, Bill.”

  Ari’s dad made an explosive sound. “Oh for God’s sake!”

  “I have to follow the facts. And Ari is not exactly a reliable witness. We know that there were kids who got their party favors from Sourmash—alcohol, drugs.” He stared at Ari. “Were you one of those kids, Ari?”

  “No! I wouldn’t. Why would I?” Ari said. Her brain was so sluggish. She felt off balance and uncertain and it came through in her voice. Captain Rourke seemed accusatory. As if he thought she was complicit in some way. There had to be a reason for all of this, but what was it? She kneaded her temples and tried to remember, but it was useless.

  “Why are you protecting him?” her father yelled.

  “I have to build a case, Bill. I can’t question him, can I?” He sighed. “We’ve searched his trailer. We found a rudimentary darkroom up there. Some pornographic magazines. A still. Drugs.”

  “He was a criminal. He kidnapped Ari. It’s likely he pushed her into that well. So why does she have to suffer through any more of this?” her father said, bunching his fists and pounding the desk. Ari jumped. Usually Dad was controlled, quiet. It was her mother who cussed out telemarketers who called during dinner and halted in the middle of the pedestrian walk to deliver a diatribe against people in cars who didn’t stop. Her father was the calming influence in the household.

  “Because somebody killed him, Bill. And Ari was there, and from what I can tell, she went voluntarily.”

  “No!” said Ari. “I would never!” Her mother made comforting sounds.

  The phone on the desk buzzed. Captain Rourke picked it up. “Great. You found it. Out there west of Walla
ce roundabouts. Good. And?” He made a surprised noise. “You don’t say. No sign. Okay. Yup. Tape it off. Get the white coats in there.” He directed a searching look at Ari.

  She felt herself buckling under his gaze.

  He put the handset down and almost immediately the phone rang again. His thick eyebrows rose as he listened, and he grunted.

  “Yup. Okay. No trouble? Sober ’im up. Process him. Yeah. Good. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes,” he said and then replaced the receiver.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  “We’ve found the cabin. Out near Wallace. Private road. And we made an arrest. Ronald Balboa. They call him Rocky. Known associate of Sorkin Sigurson. Had multiple priors for a whole bunch of stuff including methamphetamine possession, petty theft, public intoxication and resisting arrest. They picked him up, wandering about a mile from the cabin, under the influence of something. We’re holding him pending further investigation.” He held up a warning finger. “We haven’t charged him with murder yet but I’m expecting we will.”

  Ari felt the tension drain out of her parents. She remembered zoned-out Rocky in the truck, remembered how he cowered in his seat as Sourmash yelled his name. He seemed so shrunken, so twitchy, so incapable of movement, much less firing a gun. He’d probably been so amped up on drugs that it had lent him a kind of psychotic strength.

  “That means he probably killed Stroud too,” she said, awash in the horror of it.

  Captain Rourke looked down at his hands and grimaced. “The problem is, Ari, things sometimes get jumbled up when you’ve sustained a head injury. I’m trying to make sense of everything here but it’s just not adding up.”

  Directing a stern look at her, he continued, his tone clipped and officious. “You don’t remember how you got out to the cabin. You can’t account for your actions on Friday. You never even mentioned Ronald Balboa, yet it seems likely he was there at the same time. There’s evidence of illegal drug and alcohol consumption. And now this thing with Stroud Bellows.” He shook his head.

  “What’s going on?” her dad demanded.