by J. L. Murray
The cops finally picked me up in Jacksonville. I turned page after page of newspaper articles of child molesters and dirtbags found dead along the way. Over to one coast and across the country to the other. One article called me the Hillbilly Hellion. But most of them went with the ever-popular Vigilante Killer. Or, usually more simply, The Vigilante.
There were columns praising me, but most condemned me. And then a two-page spread: Vigilante Case Goes To Jury. The picture was me in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, my hair lank and dirty. I skipped the trial articles and stopped when I found the one I wanted.
Governor Denies Public Defender's Final Appeal; Vigilante Executed.
I stared at the headline for a long time, fingering the scar that ran down the front of me. Sometimes I stopped to feel my pulse. I still saw my mother's face, half scarred from the fire that I had hoped would kill her, too. I only said one thing to her while I was lying there in the windowed room, waiting for the drugs to take effect.
“You're not her,” I said to the scarred woman who resembled my mother. She didn't say anything. A serene smile spread across her face, puckered on the burned side, and that smile stayed there until I couldn't bear to look at her any longer. A thing wearing my mother like a coat, with nothing behind her eyes.
I turned the page. A full-color newspaper front page took up both sides of the scrapbook pages. It was a shot of the Florida State Prison, a gorgeous sunset in the background. In the foreground, blurry, were dozens of protesters, carrying signs. I could make one out that read FREE FRANCES, and another that said TOO YOUNG TO DIE. But the focus of the photograph wasn't on the people or the prison or the sunset. It was on the several hundred ravens that sat on the wall and barbed wire and circled above the prison, dotting the sky with black. The caption said: Hundreds of ravens gather just before Frances Mourning's execution. At the moment of her death, every bird took flight, turning day to night.
The image had shown up on websites, newspapers and television news shows across the country. I saw video feed much later, showing the moment of my death. It was chilling, not just because I knew I was dying behind those walls: the sight of all those ravens screaming and taking off into the air wasn't something you ever expected to see. The screaming was so loud you couldn't hear the reporter.
I closed the scrapbook with a snap. I'd have to print Jimmy's story when they found him, probably by morning. I threw the book onto the other side of the bed and picked up the wallet. I stared at Thomas Dekker's driver's license photo for what felt like an eternity. Even here, I felt his dark eyes burning into me. I felt the cold ridges of the badge with a finger. I suddenly felt so tired, the kind of tired that usually took seven or eight drinks. I turned off the lamp and closed my eyes, hugging the wallet to my chest. I thought I'd dream of fire or my sister covered in my father's blood, like I always did.
I don't know whether it made me feel better or worse to dream of a man with dark eyes who touched me as if I were something holy.
I wasn't awakened by policemen in the morning and, when I threw my stuff into the passenger seat of the Honda, no one even looked my way. I got watery coffee from the motel office, grabbing a doughnut from the box behind the counter when the manager wasn't looking, then got in the car and sat behind the wheel. I lit a cigarette, regarding the raven watching me from the lawn chair on the motel sidewalk.
No one was coming for me, not yet. I started the car and found a Conoco, using the dwindling money in Tommy's wallet to gas up and buy smokes. Then I found the highway. No one stopped me. No one cared. No one even noticed.
So I drove. West on I-90 all the way. All I had to do was stick to the highway. But it didn't feel that simple to me. It felt like choosing Hell over Heaven. I didn't know what my Heaven was, but I sure as shit knew Hell, and I was driving there in a detective's stolen car. I was driving right through the gates.
I looked toward the sky to see the lone raven soaring high overhead, leading the way.
chapter three
I
t was past midnight when I rolled into St. Thomas. It was eerie seeing the school I'd attended for a few months. I sat at the four-way stop and watched the lone stoplight blinking red at me. Floodlights lit up the parking lots on either side of the intersection, the Real Western Motel on my right, the Travel Center on my left. I turned left and pulled into a space in front of the bar, at the end of a row that included the gas station, two restaurants, and gift shop. The Western-style boardwalk now had a niche carved out for an espresso stand. I flicked my cigarette out the window and looked down at the gas gauge, tapping it with a fingernail. It stayed stubbornly on empty. I’d used the last of Dekker’s cash at a gas station just after coming over Homestake Pass.
“Shit.” I looked at the bar. The Silver Saloon aimed for Wild West but settled for small town ghetto. As I walked through a door propped open with a chunk of asphalt, the smell of old cigarettes washed over me. It was sweltering in the bar, and packed with drunks. “Here we go,” I muttered. Heads turned as I walked through. Outsiders always sparked interest.
“Hey, darlin',” said an unshaven man at the bar, grinning blearily at me. He was wearing a battered cowboy hat. His sleeves had been ripped off and when I looked down, I wasn't disappointed. Cowboy boots.
“I like your hat,” I said. “Buy me a drink.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, saluting with two fingers, nearly falling off his stool. “Pick your poison, beautiful.”
A tired man behind the bar came over and nodded at me, glared at my new friend.
“Time to go, Grady,” said the bartender. “Go home, okay?”
“No!” said Grady. “I am going to buy my lady friend a drink and you can't stop me.”
“I can, actually,” said the bartender, rolling his eyes. “It's sort of my job.” He looked at me. “What are you drinking?”
“Shot of Maker’s,” I said, grinning at him. I turned my smile to Grady. “Thanks.” I looked around the bar. I was relieved that I didn't recognize anyone. I don't know why I thought I would, but the nervousness eased a bit. A group of middle-aged women playing a serious game of pool kept yelling at people who bumped into them. A cheerful cacophony of canned music came from a corner labeled Casino, its clean French doors separating it from the rest of the grubby bar.
“Here you go,” said the bartender, setting my drink down. “New around here?”
I picked up the glass and smiled. “Nah. I used to live here.”
“Oh? Whereabouts?” The bartender was wiping the counter around Grady, who was using his arms to hold his head up. A bearded, tough old man at the end of the bar was yelling, waving for him, but the bartender ignored him.
“West End,” I said. “Helmsville.”
“Shit,” he said. “Only reason to go to Hellville is because you don't want to be found.”
“I had weird parents,” I said, making my grin go wider, a million degrees of fake happiness.
“They still here?”
I looked toward the pool tables where a woman of sixty was waving a fist at a thirty-something man missing a few teeth.
“Nah,” I said, “not anymore. I’m just passing through.”
“Well, be safe,” said the bartender. “Yeah, I hear you, Al. Jesus, keep your shirt on.” He left to serve the other customers. I downed the shot, feeling better as the alcohol hit me. I turned the shot glass over and set it noisily on the bar.
“Well, Grady,” I said, turning to my new friend, sliding his wallet out of his back pocket as I pretended to rub his back. “It was awful nice to meet you. Now I have a little more driving to do.” I slid the wallet into my bag. I waved to the bartender, then, thinking better of it, palmed the cowboy hat off Grady's head and flipped it onto my own. A table of pudgy husbands out for the night started to clap and cheer. I raised my arms and grinned at them.
“Hey, have a drink with us!” said a short guy with a bushy mustache.
“Sorry,” I said, “I don't drink with married men. I'
m virtuous that way.”
“Oh, come on, honey,” said his friend, putting an arm around mustache's sweaty shoulders. “He hasn't gotten laid all year.”
“I'm guessing he'll go another year just fine then,” I said, backing out the door as his friends choked with laughter. I got into the Honda and lit a cigarette, closing my eyes. “Easy as pie,” I said to myself, breathing out smoke. “Easy as pie.”
I pulled out of the bar and into the gas station, sidling up to the corner pump. St. Thomas was a crossroads. People passing through stopped here, the last place for food or gas for miles. It did an epic summer tourist trade. College kids were always starting summer adventuring businesses, taking rich white people rafting or fishing. Most of the locals depended on the mill. A few outliers lived here for the wild beauty and cheap property, but St. Thomas was at heart a logging and mill town.
And it always seemed like a distinct step up from Helmsville.
I pulled out Grady's wallet, sliding his credit card, pulling the sweaty cowboy hat over my eyes, and filling the tank. I took out the cash, around sixty bucks and a few bills. Then I slid out what looked like an ATM card, flipping it over and sighing at the four numbers written in permanent marker on the back. He'd written his PIN on the back of the card.
“Dammit, Grady,” I said, “you made it too easy.” I took the nozzle out of the tank and looked toward the convenience store. I could see cameras inside. Even if Grady did report his wallet stolen, the police probably wouldn't bother to check the feed. Still, I couldn't chance it. I was, after all, driving a stolen car. But I had a plan to solve that problem.
I froze, blinking, realizing I'd told the bartender the truth, too. Jesus, what was wrong with me? I’d always been self-destructive, but this was out of control. It was easy enough to lie, to make some untruth that sounded better than reality. Why did I keep telling people the truth? It was bad behavior and I had to stop.
I got in the car and drove through the four-way stop, pulling into the motel, slapping on a smile as I walked through the doors, the air conditioning feeling decadent after the bar. The girl behind the counter was wearing a little red bow tie, her hair tied in a tight ponytail, her eyes rimmed in thick, black eyeliner.
“Hey,” I said. “Can I use the ATM?”
She was chewing gum and looked me over. “Sure. Something wrong with the one across the street?”
“My old man kicked me out,” I said conspiratorially, taking off Grady’s hat and leaning toward her over the counter. “I'm going to drain his bank account. Those cameras real?”
She looked where I pointed and shrugged, blowing a bubble. “Nah. They're just for looks. He hit you?”
“For the last time,” I said.
“Fuck that asshole. Take everything he has.” She clenched her jaw, a hard look behind her eyes. “Get out of this shithole and go somewhere nice.”
“I hear California's good,” I said. I'd always dreamed of moving to Los Angeles after high school. California had seemed like a different world, an exotic land that wasn’t even in the same universe. But I hadn't even made it to the end of the school year. I frowned, sliding the card in the machine and punching in the numbers. This place was already pulling me back into my past.
“Shit, take me with you,” she said with a dry laugh. When I looked, she wasn't smiling.
I left Grady’s hat on the counter.
The road to the West End was treacherous at best, death-defying in the winter. But I cruised just above the speed limit, passing semi-trucks and RV's like I'd never left. Everything was familiar, even in the dark. Maybe especially in the dark. The twists and turns of the road, the shape of the trees against the almost-black sky. Even the crescent moon hanging high in the sky, black shadows crossing it quickly, blocking its light just for a moment. Ravens. It all felt too familiar, too close. They call it Big Sky Country, but I felt claustrophobic. Chain smoking now, I lit another cigarette.
Like I'd never left.
I knew where I was going by heart, even still. I'd traveled this dirt road a thousand times, walking, on my bike, a few times on a snowmobile, and later in my father's car. These old logging roads didn't have names and that's the way people liked it. Away from the world. Anonymous. My headlights didn't start to penetrate the darkness. Tree roots raised up the road in spots, disturbing the packed dirt of summer. In winter, the road was only discernible by tire tracks in the snow—when there were any. In spring the snow melted and turned the dirt into miles and miles of cold, cloying mud that sucked the boots off your feet.
And I was back. I felt sick and exhausted and ready to scream. But I swallowed it down and kept my eyes on the road. I knew where I was going, and that would have to be enough right now.
It was cold and I turned on the heat, but the air duct spewed a rotting smell, so I cut the heat and cracked the window. Up one last hill and around the last patch of trees, and there I was. The house was lit up like a beacon, and at first looked just as I remembered. I saw movement behind the curtains and I turned off the car, watching. From the house, 70s rock music rattled the windshield of the Honda.
As my eyes adjusted, I could see seven junk cars in front. One broken upstairs window was patched up with cardboard and duct tape. A Confederate flag covered what I knew to be the living room window.
I'd been careless lately, but that's not what this was. This was a calculated risk. The only person I'd ever known who could lose a car without a trace was inside that house. He was also the only person I could scare into keeping it a secret. The only person in this town who owed me.
And hell if he didn’t owe me big.
I got out of the car and started walking, then I was knocking on the weathered door that was peeling paint, the gray wood cracking underneath. I could hear voices inside, I couldn't tell how many with the music. I knocked again, louder this time, and the music stopped and the inside lights went out, leaving an oppressive silence in the darkness, the only light a watery bulb that barely lit the front step. I heard the voices again, and could tell there were only two of them. There was a sound like glass breaking.
“Shawn!” I called through the door, though I knew he was probably just on the other side. He would hear a whisper. “I know you're in there. Open the goddamn door.”
“Who is it?” said a woman.
“A blast from the past,” I said. “Just open up.”
I could hear bickering coming from inside in a stage whisper and rolled my eyes.
“I don't have time for this, Shawn. Open the door.”
The door opened a crack, revealing the darkness within. Then a ratty face with greasy, bleached hair emerged, a woman who hadn't eaten a square meal in months. She curled her lip, an attempt to look mean, I guessed. She looked me up and down.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Is Shawn here?” I said, out of patience. It was taking everything I had not to just kick down the rickety door and haul the rat-faced woman out into the cold by her drug store dye job.
“He's here,” she said. “You can talk to me. I'm his wife.”
“Of course you are,” I said. “Tell him Frankie's come back from the dead.”
But someone was pulling the door open all the way and Shawn Delaney finally showed his face. The years had not been kind. He was wearing a blue bandanna over dirty hair that went to his bare shoulders, his jeans crusted with something I couldn't make out in the dim light. He had a bad homemade tattoo on his chest, meant to be a St. Thomas eagle, but looking more like a deranged pigeon. He'd been cute in high school, but now he had a bloated stomach and when he smiled nervously, I could see blackening teeth and rotten gums.
“Shit,” he said, dropping his can of Schmidt Ice. Cheap beer foamed up and splattered the woman's bare legs and she jumped back.
“Shawn!” she screeched, “Jesus!”
“Shit,” he said again, still staring at me.
“Got a minute?” I said. He nodded dumbly. “You'd better step out. I don't want to know
what you got going in there. Your dad always kept it so nice.”
“He died a couple years back,” Shawn said, blinking.
“Sorry. He was good to me.”
“Excuse me,” said the woman. “What the fuck is going on here? Who is this bitch?”
“Watch it, honey,” I said. “Not enough meth in the world for you to take me on.”
“Ellie, calm down,” said Shawn, seeming to notice his wife for the first time. “Go check on the kids, baby. This is just an old friend of mine.”
“Kids?” I said.
“Kids?” said Ellie. “Some blonde bitch shows up and you just want me to go check on the kids? I will divorce you, Shawn. You will not leave this house.”
“Baby, we're common law,” Shawn whined.
“I still have rights.”
“It's business,” I said. “He did a job for me years back. Just came to pick up my merchandise.”
“Oh,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You owe him money?”
“More like he owes me.” Shawn swallowed hard.
“Shit, how much?” Ellie said, aiming her glare at Shawn now.
“We're going to settle in a trade,” I said. “Don't worry.”
“Trade? What, like sex?”
I laughed before catching myself.
“That's funny?” said Ellie.
“No, definitely not sex. Shawn?”
“Just go in the house, honey. I'll be back in a minute.”
“Well, okay then. But no sex, Shawn, you hear me?”
“I hear you, baby. You're the only one for me.”
Reluctantly, Ellie closed the door. And it was just my old boyfriend and me. He stared at me. I lit a cigarette, ignoring him, giving him a second.
“Hey, Shawn,” I said. I examined the cherry on my cigarette, blew smoke through my nose. He had track marks on his arms that he rubbed at nervously.
“Is that really you?” he said finally. “Frankie?”
“Yep.”
“Are you...real?”
I finally looked at him. “Not a ghost. See?” I reeled back and smacked his face, catching him off guard, making him teeter off the front step onto the grass.