by Raen Smith
I considered three to four hours a win, especially now that I didn’t sleep with one eye open. I’d slept more soundly in the last year than I had my whole life. Ryan didn’t know what that felt like. I was beginning to think that I needed a new gauge to think about my life. Before Holston, BH, and after Holston, AH. Sleeping soundly was definitely an AH benefit.
I huddled into Ryan’s nakedness, my body curled beside him with his heavy arm draped over the top of me. He wrapped my body tighter, pulling me in. I was somehow sure his body was subconsciously aware of my plan to flee. I lay still, my body light on the bed with my eyes wide open.
2:37 a.m.
I made a mental checklist of the things I would need. I had planted several bags hidden throughout the house with cash and knives, in case I ever needed them. Ryan would need to know about them, but I only needed one bag - the bag with two thousand dollars, a disposable phone and IDs for Ivy Stone.
Ryan’s breathing finally settled into the pattern that was like an alarm for my body to spring. I waited a few more minutes, for good measure, and then slid from beneath his arm.
2:42 a.m.
He stirred, his arm still in the same position he’d fallen asleep in except without my body beneath it. I flipped the covers back over him, taking one last look at his peaceful body and slacked face.
There it was again, the pang that I hated feeling; the sudden and new sensation that I had felt for the first time today. I clenched my fists before moving away from the bed one last time. He would understand. He had to.
I’d first met Sister Josephine more than twenty years ago; the moment she came into my life remained vivid in my memory. It had been after Sunday morning mass, and Holston was still in the pew, head ducked down in prayer while the rest of the congregation filed out of church. I had sat next to him, thumbing through the Bible he had required I bring with me to service. My eyes had scanned through the pages unable to read the words when a warm hand had closed over mine.
I had looked up to see the most beautiful vision I had ever seen. Her eyes had been an amber color, a vast deepness of invitation that had spread into a wide smile. She had been young then, but she’d been clad in a matronly dress that buttoned up to her neck. A long rosary had dangled from her neck, waving gently as she had leaned in toward me.
“Come with me,” she had whispered, enclosing her hand around my own. I remembered hoping that she would take me far away from him. I had hoped, in child-like dreams, that she was my mother and had finally found me. That my mother was here to save me.
“But?” I had whispered, feeling the nag of my father’s eyes next to me. I had looked over to see him nod quietly in approval before ducking his head back down again.
She had pulled me up until I had stood on my small, black patent shoes - the shoes he had required me to wear only for Sunday mass for years, even after my feet were far too big because it had been before he had made his money - eagerly following her footsteps. She had woven through the pews to the other side of the church and had moved into a small hallway I had never been in. I remembered the feeling that I was being led to a secret garden, a magical place full of color and life. Even then, I was always looking for a way to escape from my reality. To run away from it all. I guess some things never changed.
She had stopped in front of a statue of Jesus as a child, not much older than I was at the time. He was holding a small lamb with its eyes half closed in peace and innocence.
“Remember this, Evie. When you feel frightened or scared,” she had said while bending down to look into my eyes, “or lost in any way. The Lord is here for you.”
I had wanted to run into her arms, bury my face into her neck and beg her to take me with her. Instead I had nodded my head in self-restraint as I had felt her hand give mine a small squeeze as if she’d known.
I had found myself wondering throughout the years, as I got older and our time together had grown to regular visits on Sunday and once during the week, how much Sister Josephine really had known. I had asked her once, soon after I had seen Holston order Gunnar to murder Henry, if she’d known who my father was.
Her hair had been colored with silver streaks by then, yet her eyes had still burned the same beautiful amber they always had. Her lips had tightened before they had parted to tell me this, “I knew your father a long time ago, my dear, but I don’t know who he is now or who he has become. Only the Lord knows, and it should stay that way.”
It had been in that moment that I realized Sister Josephine knew something, but what or how much, I wasn’t sure. It took ten years for me to ultimately decide that Sister Josephine had been wrong and that the world should know who he was. That’s why I had been grateful not to see Sister Josephine that day when I’d visited Father Haskens a year ago. She would have tried to talk me out of it and insist that I follow the plan of the Lord. In some ways, I wondered if God had planned that I would kill Holston all along. After all, Holston had taken me instead of Delaney.
Now, somehow, Sister Josephine was in danger. The “plan” was getting a little hazy, for the both of us.
I moved to the dresser, slipping into a discreet pair of jeans and a plain colored t-shirt; I would go for the college student abroad look this time. I wrapped a canvas jacket around my shoulders before I pulled the drawer out of the dresser, reaching for the bag pushed to the far back, and slowly unzipped it, carefully fingering the stack of cash and IDs.
After tying up a pair of sneakers, I moved into the adjoining bathroom where I let the water trickle a small stream, just enough to splash my face. I looked up to see deep brown eyes, the contacts still hovering over my blue irises from the evening out. My red hair was longer now and would be sufficient to bypass a wig. I slid open the drawer to expose a variety of eyeglasses among the strands of black and blonde wigs and grabbed a pair with thick black rims. I gave my reflection one last look before turning toward the bedroom door, away from the patterned breathing.
I hesitated in the door frame, trying to push the pain in my gut away, but I relented and moved back to the bed. I needed to feel his body one last time.
The bag dropped to the floor as I slid into my usual spot and curled his thick arm around my fully-dressed body. I listened to his chest exhale and inhale, feeling the warmth of his breath on my hair. It felt right; it felt like the home I’d never had, and despite how much I tried to shake the comfort, I couldn’t. I needed it just one minute longer. A tear moistened in my eye, slid down my cheek and landed on my lips, leaving a saltiness that burned inside my mouth.
Just a minute longer.
My eyelids grew heavy as I watched the clock, the minutes chipping away at a pace I loathed. Seven of them gone. That’s when my body conceded, my eyelids staying shut no matter how hard I tried to peel them open. I felt my body slowly sinking away, my breathing regulating, and matching Ryan’s pattern. Just this one last time.
***
I watched myself then, in my dreams. My brown hair was cropped short like the “pixie” Holston once called me, yet I wore the same clothes I had just dressed in and my getaway bag was slung over my shoulders.
My sneakers hit the wood of Ryan’s hallway without a sound as I followed the light hint of fire still crackling in the fireplace. The orange flames were replaced with a soft hue, the logs now turned white. Suddenly, I moved into my own body and was no longer watching myself. I walked into the kitchen to grab the knife Ryan had given me and tucked it into my front pocket. I knew I wouldn’t make it far with it, but it felt good to have it in my hands.
I turned left, making my way to the front door before I stopped, listening to the creaks of the old house. A quick shiver coursed through my body, my neck hairs rising in full salute. I counted. My mantra. My lifeline.
The bolt slid open with ease with the quick turn of my fingers, and before I knew it, I was in the cold mountain air in the middle of the night. I breathed in, half expecting to smell the sea, but it was long gone, the water a few miles from the house.<
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I flashed a quick glance around the perimeter of the house’s facade, which was glowing in the moonlight, listening and watching for movement. A small rustle of leaves sounded on top of me. My eyes followed the white line of birch to its top, reaching so high into the night sky that it almost scraped the clouds. The green leaves swayed in the night breeze. The old cobblestones pressed against my feet as I walked the path I had for the past year, to and from the house with Ryan. I was beginning to feel the sense of euphoria and determination that I had missed. I had a mission. A goal to seek out. I didn’t know his name yet, but I would soon. I would tie up the loose ends that Holston had left behind.
Only two steps away from the open road, I felt the hand cover my mouth. A man’s hand, smooth and more delicate than Ryan’s calloused ones. Most people’s reaction was to scream, but I didn’t. I focused on moving his finger closer into my mouth so I could clamp down on it. I thrust my knife back behind me, slicing it through the air with quick jabs, trying to land a blow, but I knew he was too far behind me. I felt the metal of a gun on the back of my scalp.
“Stop, Evie Parker,” he ordered. American. My body stiffened at my name. The name that no one half-way around the world should know. He hugged me closer to his body with one arm, and I didn’t struggle. If he wanted to kill me, he would have already done it.
“Drop the knife.”
I obliged, letting the knife fall to the cobblestones with a clatter.
“I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth, but if you scream, I have no problem silencing you,” he warned again. His voice became clearer in my head, and I turned to see the cowboy pointing a gun at my face. I looked down at his foot and leg, but there were no wounds, no blood stains on his boots or jeans.
I reminded myself it was a dream, that the cowboy in front of me wasn’t real, but it all seemed too life-like, too vivid to be anything else.
“Didn’t think anyone would find you here, did ya?” He let out a small laugh, making me want to pull his tongue out of his mouth. “The world’s a small place, too small for people like you.”
“I should have killed you.”
“Yeah, you should have, but you didn’t. Tell me, Ms. Parker, are you becoming soft? Turning over a new leaf?” he asked with a sneer. “I thought it was you, but I wanted to make sure. I knew a ruthless killer, daughter of the infamous Holston Parker, would come to that woman’s rescue in the alley. It confirmed my hunch without a doubt.”
I stood motionless, bored, waiting for him to get on with his story about his heroics. So I didn’t kill him, yet. Lucky him.
“Don’t you wanna know who I am?” he drawled, taking a quick glance back at the house. This guy was it, a real dick with an ego so big he couldn’t see what stood before him. Me. Evie Parker. A woman that didn’t take any shit from anyone.
Quiet, again. Unflinching, I waited for him to tell me. My silence was infuriating him, which was where I wanted him. Anger led to mistakes. And mistakes led to a knife in his throat; just like I should have done earlier.
“You think your sweet, old pops got to killing everyone he set out to? You’re dead wrong about that,” he offered, stepping closer to me with the gun still pointed at my face. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, the burn waving through the air.
Good. Sloppy, gregarious, just how I liked them.
I smiled now, still silent, knowing that my grin would send him reeling. I needed him for just a few more seconds and just a little bit closer. I put my hands on my hips, waiting.
“Hands up, bitch, where I can see them,” he ordered. I put my hands in the air as if to surrender. He was getting on my nerves at this point, yet he needed to be closer. Assholes like him didn’t learn lessons fast, and it was surprising he made it as close to the house as he did.
“He thought getting Sister Josephine would bring you crawling to him, but that didn’t seem to work, did it? Not going to rescue Sister Josephine, after all?”
I shrugged my shoulders; he obviously missed the backpack slung on my shoulders. I was ready to leave, and if the man responsible for Father Haskens's death and the threats to Sister Josephine was anything like the cowboy standing in front of me, it wouldn’t take much to find and get rid of him. I would be in and out of the states before the Appleton Police Department or the FBI had a chance to take a sniff at me.
“So I came here to get you,” he said with a grin.
More silence. Just a few more inches, and I could reach him.
“You hear me? I’m taking you out,” he said as he took one step closer to me.
I kicked my foot up again, landing the second blow to his groin in the same night. He stumbled back, fumbling with his gun before I kicked his arm, sending the gun into the grass. I swept back behind me and snagged up my knife, slashing the blade through the air and connecting with his gut first. He doubled over, grabbing his stomach before he fumbled toward the gun. I beat him there easily, snatching up the gun and holding it steady with my left hand.
I held my finger on the trigger, ready to pull before I stopped. The noise would wake Ryan and quite possibly, the neighbor a mile down the road. The mountains created a valley where the slightest bit of noise travelled endlessly. So instead, I tucked the gun inside my pants and thrust the knife forward again, this time higher in his chest. He moaned an awful sound, staggering back as I gripped the knife tighter and then pulled it out. I waited for his body to give out, his legs clamoring desperately beneath him until he collapsed in the grass. I stood over his body, waiting and watching the blood spurt from his mouth as he took his final breaths. I lowered the knife one more time into his chest, putting him out of his misery.
His body lay still in the grass, his front oozing with the red liquid I had poured from his body. I couldn’t leave him here. This was a mess I couldn’t let Ryan deal with himself. So I did the only thing that I knew to do. No one would be looking for the cowboy; no one knew he came here.
I dropped the knife and looked to my right. The dolly Ryan used to haul his fishing equipment appeared next to the cowboy’s body. I turned back to the cowboy, but now his straw-woven hat was replaced with a fedora. A spark ignited in my chest, electrifying the rest of my body as I moved toward him.
So I pulled the cowboy on the dolly, wrapped the thick red strap around his chest and lugged him past the house, through the backyard and down the sloping hill until I heard the rush of water. The creek behind Ryan’s house was running high, especially for summer. It should take him out to the sea by the end of the day. The mouth of the creek was isolated, populated by dense trees and poor water for fishing. It should give Ryan enough time to leave.
He could sell his boat. Leave the house. It wasn’t exactly what I had planned, but the cowboy left me no choice.
I loosened the straps and shoved his body into the current, the body bobbing in the water separate from the fedora that had disappeared into the blackness. The body flipped around, the face now turning to haunt me.
That’s when I saw it. The lifeless face of Sister Josephine, her skin a pale translucence in the moonlight, headed out to sea.
I screamed, but no sound came out.
A dream, I chanted. A dream, I begged.
6
June 15, 5:30 p.m.
Oshkosh, Wisconsin
Fred Sullivan sat at the dining table with a Scotch in his hand, ready to feel the cool amber burn down his throat. He lifted the glass and the ice cubes clinked together in a sound he had missed for over a decade behind bars. It had been six months since he regained his placement as a sexual offender in society.
He was a free man except he didn’t really feel free with the whole neighborhood keeping tabs on his every move. Moving into an apartment on the east side of Oshkosh as a sex offender on parole wasn’t much of an improvement. He put the glass to his lips and swallowed a large gulp before setting it back down on the wet ring.
Admittedly, he deserved the time he spent behind bars. The nineties had been filled
with more drugs than he would have liked to admit. While his classmates were going off to college or getting jobs, Fred was dealing drugs out of his parents’ garage. It started out as a small operation, yet before he knew it, he was in too deep. The game and money had been too good to him.
Up until he got caught of course, but the few years he spent in county jail didn’t straighten him out. He was back at it again, but this time, with a sidekick half his age. He never should have gotten involved with that girl. Although she claimed she was eighteen, Melinda was only sixteen, and he was slapped with sexually abusing a child before he knew it. Drugs, money, and women were all poison; delicious poisons he had a hard time staying away from.
He hit the button on the answering machine again, listening to the man’s voice from earlier today. “Mr. Sullivan, it’s recently come to my attention that your name, as well as my own, is on a list. This list was created by someone we both came across in our earlier years.” The man cleared his throat before he continued. This part got to Fred every time he listened to it. “Holston Parker. I don’t want to say much about it other than that I think we should talk. I think you should know the kind of danger that you’re in. That maybe we’re both in. I’ll meet you at six o’ clock at Polito’s on High Avenue. I’ll be wearing a baseball cap and glasses.”
It was 5:30, and he still hadn’t decided if he was going to meet this guy. For one thing, he never even mentioned his own name. Fred had no idea who the caller was or why he thought they were both in danger.