by Неизвестный
“Why, Kris?” Lambale asked.
Kris looked at him; his face was pasty in the weak light. “Remember the pictures and stuff you showed me at your house?” she said. “I want to show you this; it’s important to me.” She searched his face; it softened.
“Of course,” he said. “I understand.” He reached down, triggered something on the floor and the trunk sprung open. He walked around to the rear and pulled out a flashlight. “Might be handy,” he said, turning it on and shaking it until the light shone.
Wet flakes landed on Kris’s cheeks. The snow was falling heavier here and it lay deeper on the ground, deeper than the black rubbers Lambale had over his leather shoes. He picked his way gingerly, waving the light around the trees. Kris took it out of his hand and pointed to the end of the guardrail. Lambale slipped coming down the slope at the beginning of the trail, windmilling his arms to keep his balance. When the trail leveled off, he walked in the yellow oval thrown by the flashlight. Snow collected on the bottom of his trousers and Kris kept her eyes on the whitened cuffs as they flashed in and out of the dim light.
They came onto the bridge and Kris stopped him. Behind them, the stream crashed invisibly down the mountainside. She pointed the light downstream; the beam disappeared in the thick flakes.
“You killed her, Loren.” Kris whispered. The stream was too loud to talk here.
Lambale placed his hand on her shoulder and bent his head close to her ear. “Is this where your mother was killed?” he shouted. The light was on his feet, his legs rose out of it into the dark.
“As if you didn’t know,” she said and lifted the light.
His face was hung with shadows. Did it harden, his eyes narrow?
Kris pointed the light down the path. She heard him say something. Was he whining?
Kris motioned again. He walked toward the far end of the bridge; Kris followed. When he stepped onto the trail, he turned and looked at her. She waved him forward. They waded through the snow, shallow and uneven under the trees whose interwoven branches caught and held the snow high above the trail. They walked, stumbling over unseen roots and slipping when the trail sloped up or down, until the stream’s roar faded. Enough falling snow escaped the branches to muffle the sound of their breathing and the darkness beyond the beam of the flashlight was impenetrably black. The night pressed in. She breathed.
“Stop here.”
Lambale turned around. “What are you doing, Kris?” There was authority in his voice.
“Loren.” Her voice shivered. “You killed my mother.”
His face was hidden; the light pointed down at the snow.
“What are you talking about?”
Kris shone the beam into his face. He blinked and brought his hand up, gloved in leather, to shade his eyes. She pulled it down. He squinted, but the light was not bright.
“You screwed my mother, Loren.” His eyes widened. No denial.
“You fucked her, Vern blackmailed you, and you killed her.” Kris’s voice hardened; heat bloomed in her chest, climbed into her face.
“Kris, that’s absurd.” He waved his hand, dismissing her.
“I know it.”
“No, Kris. It’s not–”
“You killed her.” The words were louder, bitten out of the air.
“I don’t know where you –.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“What do you want from me Kris?” He straightened, showed his palms: a reasonable man making a deal with a child.
“Say it,” she yelled.
“I didn’t kill her.” He pushed past her, heading back for the car.
“Loren, stop.” She shook off a mitten, let it fall into the snow. “Turn around.”
He turned. The .38 was in her hand. She put the light on it.
“Put it away, Kris. You’ve been drinking.”
She flashed the light back into his eyes. They blinked.
“Say it.” She had him now.
“Kris, this is dangerous. Put—“
Turning the pistol so he could see, she pushed off the safety. He raised his arms and let them drop against his legs. She stepped forward, close to him, the pistol leveled. Her breath was harsh—it bit her throat—she felt herself hurtling.
“I didn’t—”
“Your name was with a pile of cash at Vern’s.”
“No.” The air rushed out of him.
Kris shoved the barrel into his stomach. He moved his hand to brush it away and she whipped it against his fingers.
He gripped his fingers. “Kris. Be reasonable.”
“Reasonable. Did Evie ask you to be reasonable?”
She jabbed the gun into him again. He jerked back, slipped, fell; a black shape tumbling in the dark. The light followed him down. Scrambling, trying to get to his hands and knees, floundering in the snow. Kris put her foot on his shoulder and heaved. His knees slid over the edge, feet thrashing for a hold on the steep, off-hill, side of the trail.
“Kris,” he called from the ground, the authority in his voice breaking.
She knelt in front of him, power surged through her, riding her nerves. His face was yellow and unstable in the light; it twisted, shadows broke across it.
“I-I did some things wrong—” He stopped.
“You did what things wrong?” Her voice was high.
“I, oh God.” His head dropped.
“Tell me.” Kris pushed the barrel into his forehead and forced his head back. His face came into the light again. She was shaking.
“Kris,” he whispered.
“What things wrong?” Her pulse, amped by the beer, thudded in her brain.
“I…Sex.” He looked at her, his eyes pleading.
“Everybody screwed Evie. No one shot her.” She pressed the barrel into his forehead. His head skidded off it and slumped to the ground. His hat toppled into the snow and strands of hair sagged outward.
“Did you pay her for it?” She taunted; victory swelling in her.
His head, pale under thinning hair, didn’t move.
“You shit, you didn’t give her anything?”
The head was still.
“You took it?” Suddenly an added tension charged the air.
Then it connected. “You raped her.” On her feet; losing control.
His face lifted. Pathetic. “I tried to help her. I—”
“Help her. Mr. Friend to abused women. Get your picture in the paper. “
“No!” Pulling into himself. “No, that’s not—” Shouting, now. “That’s not the way it was. I tried—” He surged up, a black shape against the night, coming at her. She swung the pistol with both hands, the flashlight tumbled into the snow. He slapped the gun aside. It exploded like a bomb blast, the gun jumping in her hand. She staggered, dazed, the roar striking like a sledge against her ears.
Then she heard Lambale screaming. The scream rushed at her out of the darkness. “No! Kris!” Frantic, she spun, confused, lost in the night; she slipped, fell.
She lifted the gun.
“You don’t under—” He was on top of her.
From the snow, she pointed up, pulled the trigger. Ears slammed. Blinded by the muzzle flash. She rolled, jumped to her feet.
He was a black shape in the snow, crawling.
The night warped around her, a voice screeched in her skull, like metal tearing. The gun lifted, tracked, aimed and the night exploded again and again and again.
__________
Kris spun, stumbled, fell to her knees. Her chest heaved, straining at air too thin. Nothing to fill her lungs.
She fell onto her hands trying to hang on. Her stomach lifted. Beer and chips erupted into the night. She saw nothing. Breathe. God, it was hard to breathe.
She tumbled sideways into the snow coiling into a knot.
Her cheek melted into the snow and more snow fell before the hammering in her head quieted and the air became easier to breathe. A snowflake landed in an eyelash. Another on her ear. Cold bit at a wrist exposed to
the air. Her hip hurt, squashed against the hard ground. The side of her face buried in the snow burned with cold.
“Jesus,” she whispered.
She untangled herself and rolled onto her hands and knees. The night was grayer now, not as black as it was when her eyes had been focused on the flashlight’s beam. She looked behind her and saw it glowing faint and feeble under the snow. Beyond it, on the edge of the trail, was a motionless lump.
Oh God.
She stood, tottered. A leg had gone to sleep. She shivered. The cold and wet had seeped into her.
What now?
Snow was still falling.
What do I do now?
In the gray-blackness, the snow on the ground around her was torn and chewed. Black stains splattered it. Blood. And puke. Did she puke? She could taste it now, bitter and acrid.
God.
Fear trickled in. She shivered, she couldn’t stop, her arms and legs began to shake. She had to get out of there.
Kris began to move. Dimly, hysterically.
Grab the light. God it’s dim. Turn it off. Save it. Where’s the gun? Fell over here. Kick the snow—got it. Cold. Smell it, the powder. What am I going to do with it? Put it in pocket for now. Mittens, where’d they go? One in my pocket, the other—by the light. Right, stick it in a pocket. Lambale. Raped her. God, I didn’t mean to do it. He attacked me. Dusted with snow already. What am I going to do with him? God he’s big. Half off the trail. How steep is it? Can’t see a thing. Try it. It’s going to be a chore. Dig in here, hands on shoulders. Oh shit. Blood. Push. Push. Get over the edge, motherfucker. Push. Jesus, moving fast. Like somebody grabbed him. How far will he go? To the beach? Someone will see it. Can’t hear a thing. Did he stop? What else? Blood. Make snowballs and pitch them. What else? Oh shit, puke. Push it over the edge with your foot. His hat, toss it. OK. Still snowing. How much longer? What else? Footprints. Hide the footprints. Even it out, here. Grab some fresh stuff. Looking good. Couple more inches of snow and no one could tell. What else? What else? Am I OK? Forget something now, I’m hosed. This is it. Move. Move. Get out of here.
Kris followed their trail out, reeling, off balance in the dark on the snow-covered ground. Her heart began to slow. Put some miles on it today. She tripped, fell to a knee. The roaring of the stream grew louder. What next? Get the car back to the garage. Dump the gun. Set up an alibi. What do I need? How long have I been gone? Thirty minutes max.
Oh, God!
She stopped, blood icing in her veins. The car keys.
Did he leave them in the car? Does he have a spare hidden in it? The ashtray? Can I leave the car here?
No. It drummed in her brain. No. No. I’m not going back.
She felt herself begin to crumple, the ground under her shifting, the first small pebbles and rocks spilling out from under her feet and spilling into the void. Oh, God.
The night, the snow, the trees made no sound.
She packed her fingers into fists and pressed them against her ears.
Quit jerking around. It’s you. Move.
She turned. It was blacker that way, back into the trees and the trail of their footprints disappeared instantly. She lifted a foot.
It took a long time to find the spot. She peered over the edge of the trail where Lambale had been swallowed by the night and saw nothing. Putting her feet over the side, she backed down, her hands, out of her mittens now, floundering in the dark for jutting angles of rocks and crooked roots to hang on to. It wasn’t sheer, but it was steep. Lambale had scraped the slope clear of snow and when she veered off his track, her hands found snow instead of spruce needles and dirt.
She stepped onto the body. It gave under her foot. She jerked back, let her breath catch up to her. She turned and squatted above it. It was shapeless; merging without edges into the black night and the black tree trunk it was twisted up against. There was no snow on it. Maybe the ravens would find it faster.
She couldn’t make out anything, head, arms and legs were lost in the night. She fumbled for the flashlight zippered into a pocket. She clicked the button. Nothing. She shook it, the batteries clunked back and forth. The bulb glowed, barely strong enough to show the creases in her hand.
Move.
She crouched forward, pointed the beam on the shape. The clothes were ripped and tangled; blood-soaked snow and dirt were packed into their folds and creases. Chest. Leaning on her left hand, she pointed the light up; the beam disappeared. She crawled to the right bringing the light closer. She leaned over him, her eyes just behind the bulb, searching for detail.
Chin. Wrong end. Streaks of black blood, glistening dully, oozed from the mouth. Still flowing.
She pressed her cheek against the light’s shaft, its feeble beam barely jutting into the night. She moved it up his face.
His eyes were open. Brown like hers.
They blinked.
She recoiled in terror. The light fell from her fingers, bounced under the body.
Beneath her, the ground disappeared, she fell—
“Kris.”
Oh, God.
She froze, still as death, her eyes fastened on the blackness where his eyes had been.
She heard his breathing now. Raspy, faint. It caught, gurgled, then released.
“Kris. I, I’m…” Whisper soft.
She needed the keys. There was nothing else she was going to do. She reached into the dark and touched his far shoulder, his right one. She ran her hand down his side, fast, through blood, sticky and wet, cold snow, and tangled fabric. She found his waist and hopped left on her knees to come down to it. Her fingers found his belt, then pushed and probed at his pants searching for the opening of his pocket. The fabric was tight, stretched by his leg bent off at an impossible angle. Where was it? She found the slit of the pocket. Yanked at it to open it wider and pushed her fingers in. Warmth. His. There was change, loose up near the top. The pocket fabric was tucked under itself. She pulled at it, probing recklessly, digging her fingers past the fold.
He groaned. The sound wavered behind her.
Keys. She had them. Some were stuck, tangled in the fabric. She stood and wrenched. His leg spasmed, his body shuddered.
He sobbed.
She tugged them free.
Move.
She raced up the mountainside, pulling at the roots and rocks, digging her fingers into the soil, her feet struggled for purchase, sometimes slipping, pitching her full length into the slope.
Shit. No!
The flashlight. It was under him. It had her fingerprints all over it.
Oh, God! Get me away from him.
Don’t think about it. Just go. Go!
She slid back down, moving fast. Hands, feet, knees, and elbows flailing against the ground trying to control her fall. Avalanches of dirt and needles and snow tumbled and bounced down with her.
Stop. This is it.
She dug in, dragged her weight to a stop.
The glow peeked out from under him.
Don’t say anything. Just be dead.
She reached under, closed her fingers around it and pulled.
Is there anything else?
She climbed back up on all fours, slower, panting, the air burning in her throat. At the trail she staggered erect and fled back to the car, stumbling and falling, blind in the snow-ridden night.
__________
Her lungs stopped her. She propped herself on her knees and pumped air into them. Above her was the guardrail and beyond that the Mercedes. Up in the trees were houses and people and she knew that she had to do this right. If she blew it, she wouldn’t get a second chance.
Why did he have to be alive?
Her breathing slowed. She stood and looked up at the rail, a dark band at the top of the little slope that started the trail. Kris needed a cigarette.
Blood, dirt, what a mess. Can’t get this all over the car. She picked up handfuls of snow and rubbed at her pants and parka, trying to wash off what she couldn’t see. She shook the needles out
of her hair and tied it in a knot. When she was ready, she walked quietly up to the end of the trail. Out from under the trees, the falling snow was still thick and impenetrable. The Mercedes, across the circle of pavement, was invisible. There was no other sound or light.
She stepped onto the pavement, walked quickly to the car pulling out the key ring; which button was the lock, which was the car alert? She guessed, pressing—the door locks clicked. She pulled off the parka, turned it inside out, and laid it on the seat before sitting on it. She pulled her mittens back on, felt for the ignition, and, gripping the key through the thick caribou leather, pushed it in. The car started. She clicked the lights and windshield wipers alive. Not wanting to mess with the seat adjustment, she sat on the edge of the seat, threw the car into reverse, and backed into a turn, pointing the car toward Juneau.
Five miles to town, stash the car in the garage. Once in the garage, she was committed. There were no places to hide.
The snow swirled through the beams of the headlights, reflecting light back at her. The big flakes were starting to pile up on top of the slush in the road. She drove slowly, edging the car into the snow and dark. Both mittened hands were clamped on the wheel; her face was thrust forward, eyes fixed at the limit of the lights, where the night closed in.
The dash clock said 6:45. One and a half hours—too long. It can’t be right.
The Mercedes climbed up the hill by the tank farm, its lights hard and brilliant even through the snow.
Why hadn’t he been dead?
A pair of headlights exploded out of the night behind her. Light blasted through the back window, ricocheting off the rearview mirror into Kris’s eyes. Her fingers locked onto the steering wheel. They were right on her tail; aggressive, pushy.
They stayed on top of her.
Too high for a cop. It was a truck. Four wheel drive and twenty-five miles an hour was too stinking slow for it. She followed the road left, then right down the hill, pass the boarded up tourist shops, and entered town; the truck glued to her rear.
If someone asks him tomorrow, is he going to remember a black Mercedes coming up Thane?
The garage loomed on her left. Brake. Signal. The pickup accelerated past her on the right, it disappeared into the snow. She turned in and drove up three ramps to the top like she belonged there. Four cars were parked there, no people. Lambale’s spot was on the floor below. She pulled into a space, shifted to park, and craned her head over both shoulders, checking for people, before getting out. She left the engine running. Behind the driver’s seat she found a snow brush and quickly—stay in control—brushed off the snow. Water beaded on the black steel. Leave it. The garage was empty, hollow.