Wrathbone and Other Stories

by Parent, Jason

  The demons laughed louder, drowning out all sound. Our fate had come. Damnation awaited the both of us. So I did the only thing I could do.

  I saved Clara.

  I raised my pistol.

  “Henry, let me live!” she howled behind a shark-toothed grin. Then, in a voice that was decidedly not Clara’s but low and resonant as if bellowed from the bottom of a well, she said, “For the sake of the children.”

  The laughter, so loud then, so persistent that it was maddening, nearly brought me to my knees. But I could not falter. I summoned what was left of my strength. The beast needed to be silenced.

  I shot Clara twice in her chest. She fell onto the bed. I walked to the dresser and opened the drawer where I kept my knife. I needed to be sure she was dead—to save her.

  Clara lay on the bed, still alive. Her eyes stared at me, asking that infernal question: Why?

  I do this for you, dear. I love you.

  The demon’s hot breath blew against the back of my neck. I smiled. “You are too late, fiend. You will not have her.” I raised my knife and plunged it into my sweet Clara’s heart.

  We did not come for her , the demon whispered into my ear. It laughed low and heavy as it retreated into the walls with its army.

  I was alone with my dying wife. The knowledge that I had made the ultimate sacrifice for her, that she would go to a better place because of my actions, was bittersweet. Grief wormed its way into my soul. We would spend eternity apart. Never would I see my Clara again.

  I pulled the knife from her chest. Then I stabbed it into my stomach. Again. And again. And again.

  V.

  It won’t be long now. My God! What a long life I’ve lived. So little to show for it.

  Liquid nothingness swallows the walls. Darkness encroaches. I start to nod off but shake myself awake. Every moment in this world, every last second I can abate life’s march, is a second I cheat that demon from what is owed.

  I’ve spent a long life of battling against a tide, wading against its pull as long as I could before I am spent, knocked down, and swept under. The demon left me alone after Clara’s death, its purpose fulfilled. I’ve had twenty-seven years here in this asylum to consider it all. All that time … I had thought the beast was after my family to punish me. I should have known it was me it had wanted.

  I leave these scribbles behind for anyone who will read them. I have little faith that they will be viewed as anything more than the ramblings of a mind fallen into disrepair. Still, I lay bare my sins, confess those to which I am at fault and deny those for which I have been charged. I am well past the judgment of man.

  I go now to the other side, void of love, void of Clara, with only my demons to embrace.

  THE ONLY GOOD LAWYER

  * * *

  Innocent until proven guilty: that was his mantra. No matter how guilty Bradley Walsh knew his client to be, he’d make sure justice remained blind. He’d bury the truth in a murky sea of “facts” and misdirection, obscured by a school of red herrings. Reasonable doubt was his ally, a vixen who seduced jurors with an alluring cloud of deceit.

  The trial was his to control. The participants—the witnesses, the victims, the prosecutor, and even the judge—were his unsuspecting pawns. The courtroom his playing board, Bradley ruled the game. And that day, just like all the days before it, he had performed masterfully.

  Bradley dismantled the prosecution’s case with carefully crafted cross-examination. His questions could only be answered one way, limited so much in their scope that witnesses answering them had no room to wiggle. He’d never ask them the material questions, those that would damn his client—not unless the state wanted to pay him the exorbitant amounts his clients were willing to shell out. No, private practice had swelled his bank accounts and his ego well beyond those of the inferior masses.

  Victory was so close he could smell her perfume. Only one witness remained. After that, Bradley would move to dismiss the case, and he would succeed, the state having failed to put forth any credible case against his client. The jury would not have the chance to convict on gut feeling alone. His client would never have to set foot in the witness box.

  Bradley glanced at his client, his eyes smiling upon a guiltless canvas. Clint Billings, a convicted drug dealer with a rap sheet that read like a Manson confession, stared back at him, a smug grin marking an otherwise hardened face.

  The face of a killer . Bradley was sure everyone present thought it. But who could prove it?

  Billings was evil, pure and simple. A six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound weapon of mass destruction without compassion or conscience, Billings ran a crew of thieves, rapists, drug dealers, and murderers, the sort who took what they wanted no matter the consequences. He was a monster inside and out. Monsters like him didn’t think twice about suffering and torment unless someone intended to inflict either upon them.

  That was what the state had in mind for him. But Billings had learned long ago the cardinal truth behind the criminal justice system: threats, bribes, and unscrupulous representation were far better than innocence, particularly since innocence was supposed to be presumed.

  Bradley was happy to accommodate so long as his pockets were stuffed. He cared little for innocence. For the right price, he could serve innocence up on the proverbial platter. He’d even steal it from the scales of justice.

  “No more questions, Your Honor.” Bradley backed away from a rattled college student, the prosecution’s star witness to the brutal murder of Jeanette LeFevre. Once a beautiful teenager filled with dreams of a bright future, Jeanette now lay dead and mutilated in a cold wooden box six feet below the surface. She had been abducted from outside her dormitory, bludgeoned repeatedly and defiled—postmortem—in the woods nearby.

  The young man on the stand, a fellow university goer with no apparent reason to lie, testified on direct examination that he’d seen Billings force Jeanette into his black BMW at gunpoint. By the time Bradley had finished with him, the student could no longer say with certainty the color of the car Jeanette had entered, the time or day of the alleged abduction, the circumstances under which she’d entered the vehicle, or the identity of the man with whom she’d left.

  The student’s testimony had unraveled against questioning designed to discredit, confuse, and confound. The case was all but over. The victim’s father, a witness of no factual consequence, was the sole barrier between Bradley and yet another win.

  “The state calls Pepe LeFevre to the stand,” the prosecutor announced, projecting confidence Bradley found as phony as unicorns in space.

  A dark-skinned man rose from his seat in the back of the courtroom where he had sat alone, unnoticed. Small in stature but large in presence, he stepped out from behind the crowd and walked toward the gate separating the officers of the law from the rest of the rabble. All eyes were on him, including Bradley’s. He walked through the swinging half door and paused until a court officer directed him to the witness box. His part in what masqueraded as the administration of justice was about to begin.

  As LeFevre passed, Bradley watched him with the shrewd confidence of a falcon stalking a field mouse. Easy prey . But on closer inspection, the little mouse didn’t seem so meek. LeFevre was clad in a royal-blue blazer thrown over a black T- shirt and black dress pants. The afterthoughts of a fire scarred one side of his face. His mouth was hideously deformed, the corner of his lips missing where the scar tissue began, his teeth partially exposed. It made him look as though he might be smiling sinisterly, mouth curled like something between a dog’s snarl and the smirk of a psycho clown in a horror film. His teeth were stained yellow and unnaturally spaced. A few were black and rotted.

  But it was his eyes that bitch-slapped Bradley’s composure—completely colorless, cataract plagued, and milky. LeFevre must have been as blind as a mole. But he wore no sunglasses, and he was sure-footed. There was conviction in those eyes, a strength unbefitting the man’s four-foot-nothing frame.

  And Bradley
saw it well. LeFevre’s gaze never left him. Bradley wanted to retreat from that stare. That ghost of a man, that nobody among giants, made him feel small. He swallowed hard. Something in LeFevre’s eyes caused the attorney’s hands to shake. His tie tightened around his neck. He tugged at his collar. Sweat pooled in his armpits.

  What’s wrong with me? Bradley couldn’t make sense of his fear. He had shaken hands with the Devil, represented beings far worse than LeFevre. Yet this mongrel, straight off some ill-begotten raft, likely without a dollar in his pocket or a friend with any clout, had unnerved him with nothing more than a stare?

  He’s nothing , Bradley tried to rationalize. But his uneasiness wasn’t so easily staved. The upper hand was his to lose. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to stall. So he stood.

  “Your Honor, before swearing in this witness, perhaps now would be a good time for a break?”

  Judge Mia Nevarro peered over the thick bifocals propped on the end of her nose. Bradley knew she despised him. He had played fast and loose with the rules of procedure in her courtroom many times too many.

  She looked at the clock hanging high on the back wall. “Mr. Walsh, it’s only twelve fifteen. As you are well aware, lunch break isn’t until one. This case seems to be nearing conclusion, so I thought we’d press on through lunch. I see no reason—”

  “Fifteen-minute bathroom break, Your Honor?”

  Judge Nevarro let out a long, heavy sigh. “Very well.”

  She stood and turned toward fourteen blank faces aligned in two rows: the esteemed members of the jury and the alternate jurors. Bradley saw them as fourteen people too dumb to know how to get out of jury duty, fourteen people who would eat up his bullshit all day long.

  “Jurors,” Judge Nevarro said. “Same instructions as I gave you before the last break. No discussing the case with anyone, including each other. We’ll take a short break and be ready to resume in fifteen minutes. I trust that everyone who needs to use the facilities will have done so by then.” She cast a sideways glance at Bradley.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “All rise,” a court officer hollered. Like sheep, all in the courtroom complied.

  While waiting for the judge and jury to exit, Bradley shuffled absentmindedly through papers on the table before him, keeping his eyes downcast, away from LeFevre’s stare. But his brain eventually betrayed him; he looked up just as LeFevre stepped from the witness stand. Again, their eyes locked.

  Bradley watched as thin lips pulled back, revealing diseased gums. Now he was sure of it: LeFevre was smiling.

  A court officer, who Bradley thought was named Len, escorted LeFevre between the lawyers’ tables to the gate. As they passed him, LeFevre opened his jacket. A patchwork doll with green button eyes and a stitched-on smile was affixed to the inner lining. Its hair looked real; it was light brown and parted to the side. The doll wore a stylish blue pinstriped suit, white button-down, and canary-yellow tie. It matched Bradley perfectly.

  “He … he …” Bradley pointed at the doll, but he couldn’t get the words out. Words were his weapons, yet the doll’s appearance made him forget how to wield them. He’d heard of dolls like that. He understood their significance. Though he didn’t believe they held any supernatural power, he sure as hell didn’t like the threat. Bradley didn’t just feel threatened; he was downright terrified.

  LeFevre jabbed the doll with a sharpened fingernail. Pain burst through Bradley’s side as though a spear had pierced it in exactly the same spot. He keeled over, bracing himself with a palm against the table. LeFevre winked and exited the courtroom. The court officer returned to his post.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Billings asked from his seat beside him. Bradley’s lawyering had secured his client that seat, as well as the absence of an orange jumpsuit and shackled, cuffed wrists so that he’d look less guilty. But the ankle shackles remained. His client had to stay put. That was the deal.

  “I gotta take a shit,” Bradley answered, not wanting to alarm his very big and very violent client. He waved the court officer over and headed out of the courtroom.

  Outside, the court officer, who matched Billings pound for pound, glared at Bradley with questioning eyes. This had better be good , the eyes said.

  “Thanks for coming out here with me, Len. You’re not going to be—”

  “The name’s Lou.”

  “Right. Lou. Sorry.” Bradley pointed to LeFevre, who was standing twenty feet down the hall. “I know this is going to sound strange, but that man has a voodoo doll of me attached to the inside of his jacket.

  Lou frowned. “You serious?”

  “Could you just ask him to open his jacket, please?”

  Lou huffed, but he did as asked. Bradley watched as he walked over to LeFevre. The two talked. Then they laughed. LeFevre opened his jacket. He took it off and handed it to Lou, who shook it and sifted through its pockets.

  Bradley heard Lou say, “Sorry for the inconvenience.” The court officer walked toward him with palms held upward, a satisfied look on his face. He shrugged and returned to the courtroom.

  “But …” Bradley tried to protest, his lower lip quivering. His best bet for a comrade-in-arms had wiped his hands clean of the situation, leaving Bradley alone and defenseless in that hallway. Now he really did need to use the restroom. He hustled toward it and away from LeFevre.

  The courthouse was decades old, and its restrooms were no better than outhouses with running water. Bradley pushed open the wooden door to the men’s room, staring blankly through a bubbly opaque-glass window that framed everything on the opposite side in shadow. The door creaked. Bradley scanned the bathroom for life, but it was empty. He walked over to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, happy to be alone.

  He’s fucking with me . Bradley stared through his reflection in the mirror, his mind replaying the events in the courtroom. Stupid mind trick—that’s all it was .

  He hit his palms against the sink, angrier at himself for being duped than at LeFevre for duping him. He thinks he can shake me off my game? Bradley scoffed at the notion. The knots in his shoulders, wound tightly by LeFevre and his little toy, began to unravel. He would not be bested by some manipulative freak.

  He unzipped his fly and strutted toward the middle of three adjacent urinals, all unoccupied. As his stream released, his stress released with it. He stared at the wall in front of him. Justice is blind was scribbled on the tile.

  Bradley laughed. Yeah, but it sure is lucrative .

  The restroom door creaked. The sound of footsteps did not follow. Bradley thought nothing of it until he felt a presence to his left, then another to his right. He cleared his throat, shook himself, and tucked his manhood back into his pants. As he zipped up, a chill ran down his spine. Without rhyme or reason, nausea hit him like a punch to the gut. His mind screamed for him to look left, simultaneously warning him against such action. He stole a glance to his left.

  Bradley screeched as his eyes met the cold, dead stare of Pepe LeFevre. He stumbled back, bumping into the man to his right.

  He released his breath. Thank God I’m not alone with LeFevre , he thought, feeling the warmth of the stranger’s shoulder against his back. It gave him confidence, emotional support. He would not be terrorized—not by LeFevre, not by anybody.

  “Mr. LeFevre,” he said, trying to sound coolheaded. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you are going through. Your daughter deserves justice. But respectfully, sir, I think you’d be better served if you pushed the police to find her real killer. I’m sure they will help you in every way they can.”

  LeFevre didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t so much as blink. He just kept on staring that thousand-yard stare. Bradley imagined gruesome cinematic depictions of his own death playing upon the back of the man’s eyes. All the while, LeFevre’s eerie-ugly smile never vanished.

  “In the meantime,” Bradley continued, again needing to clear his throat. “Your threats against me have got
to stop, or I’ll have no choice but to report you to the authorities. Am I clear?”

  Though LeFevre made no hint of aggression, Bradley saw something malevolent beneath his smile, darker than anything in the faces of the hundreds of criminals he’d plucked from judgment—a glimpse at the essences of hatred, rage, and murder. Real evil. It chilled him to the bone.

  But what could LeFevre do with a witness standing right next to him? Bradley turned to apologize to the man he’d bumped, his rope out of this pit of fear.

  Pepe LeFevre stared back at him.

  “What the fuck?” Bradley’s jaw dropped open. His heart tried to leap out of it. His thoughts raced out of control. And into the abyss he plummeted, the darkness dragging him down.

  Instinct preserved Bradley. He spun to his left. No one was there. He spun right. LeFevre number two had also vanished. Bradley could hear his pulse pounding in his temples. He scanned the bathroom. LeFevre was gone.

  But something remained. When Bradley saw it, he raced to the sink where it had been perched. He reached with both hands, wanting to throttle LeFevre but willing to settle for this little doll. But silly superstition halted him in his tracks. What if … ?

  Blood rushed into Bradley’s head. His face turned apple red. “That’s it!” he shouted, the words coming out with a growl. He kicked the wall, putting a hole through the plaster. He picked up the doll.

  Someone had drawn Xs over the eyes with a Sharpie. The mouth was no longer smiling—the stitches ran flat, expressionless. The hair was styled the same way he had styled his hair for the last twenty years, parted left to right. Most strands were light brown, and some were gray—the same as his hair looked in the mirror before him. He felt it. The hair felt like his, too. Just like his.

  He flipped. “Motherfucker!” Bradley kicked the wall until the small hole he had made grew to the size of a manhole cover. Clutching the doll, he stormed out of the men’s room.