All the Dead Lie Down

by Mary Willis Walker

  And she was even more eager. Her anxiety was mounting and she was desperate to finish this painful charade and get to her main event.

  “It’s in my bedroom.” He took hold of her upper arm. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour”—he leered at her—“of my closet.”

  Molly pressed her left arm against the purse hanging on her shoulder for courage and let herself be led from the kitchen, her heart thumping, her hands slick with sweat. He led her through the living room and down a dark hallway. Halfway down the hall, with his hand clamped tight around her arm, the walls closed in on her, sealing off any possibility of retreat. He’d led her like this into her father’s bedroom when she was sixteen, when he’d had all the power of male authority and she’d had none. She went along with him, then and now.

  The bedroom, lighted by one small lamp on a table next to the unmade king-size bed, had the same brown shag carpet as the living room, and the same stale, unclean odor. He stood next to the bed and turned to face her. Immediately he unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. There sure wasn’t much trick to getting this lamb ready for the slaughter.

  Molly set her bottle down on the dresser and carefully arranged her purse next to it.

  “What’s this going to cost me?” he asked. “You haven’t told me your questions.”

  “Well,” she said, slowly unzipping her jeans, “what are we talking about here? What do you like these days, Olin?”

  “Same old, same old,” he said, pulling his boxers down to reveal his erection.

  “How about this?” she said, pulling her shirt up. “We’ll finish what got interrupted last time. Then you’ll answer one question for me.” She pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor.

  He was looking her over. “Well, I don’t know. That was the deal before. No offense, but you’re a lot older now.” He smiled.

  She stared back at him, making a show of studying his body the same way he was studying hers. “Forty-five next month,” she said, holding her stomach in tight and trying to inject pride into her voice.

  His smile faded. “As a rule, women over twenty-five just don’t do it for me, but I’m making an exception with you. Unfinished business.”

  She peeled her jeans down and stepped out of them. “I’m flattered. Oh.” She turned to the dresser behind her. “I brought you something.” She opened the flap of her purse and put her hand in, hesitating, unsure of whether to go for the gun or the condoms. It might be premature for the gun….

  “Turn around real slow,” he said behind her.

  She did what he said—turned real slow.

  He was sitting on the bed with a shotgun aimed at her. Lord, that was quick; he must’ve had it under the bed.

  She raised the hand with the condoms. “Such an overreaction, Sheriff. I know you men don’t like wearing these, but really.” She waved the packet at him. “Nothing personal. It’s a rule of mine.” She tossed the packet onto the bed next to him. “The first of my three sexual rules,” she purred, leaning back against the dresser, bracing her arms behind her, one hand touching the purse.

  He kept the shotgun on her with one hand and picked up the packet with the other. As he glanced down to examine it, Molly slipped the gun out of the purse’s side compartment and slid it down the back of her white lace bikini pants, hoping they would hold the weight.

  Crocker looked up, his grin wide. “Glow-in-the-dark, huh? Well, we’ll see. What are your other two rules, Molly?”

  “No guns. You need to put that away.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing that draws blood. Other than that, anything goes.”

  “Tell you what,” he said with the shotgun still pointing at her. “Let me take a look at that handbag of yours. Just to make sure you’re abidin’ by your own rules.”

  Molly reached behind her, grabbed the purse, and tossed it onto the bed. He lifted the flap and felt around inside, then tossed it back to her.

  He leaned down and put the shotgun on the floor.

  “Under the bed,” Molly said. “Out of sight.”

  He pushed it under the bed.

  “Okay. Now put one of those rubbers on, Sheriff, and I’ll see if it really tastes like margaritas. I’m very fond of margaritas.”

  He ripped the package hurriedly and took out the little circle. As he unrolled it on himself, she crossed the room to him quickly. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. She knelt between his open legs, trying not to breathe in his sour smell, which she remembered all too well. “Next time I’ll show you how I can put it on with my mouth—a skill for the nineties.” She put her hands on his knees. “Here. Lie back. Go on,” she crooned.

  He lowered his head to the bed, letting his legs hang over the edge. Perfect. She felt like gagging. She slid her left hand slowly up the inside of his thigh while her right hand reached behind her for the gun. She brought the .38 up underneath his legs and pressed it against his scrotum. When she cocked it, the noise was unmistakable.

  Crocker let out a little “oof” noise.

  “Stay still,” she said. “You move and I’ll blow your balls to raw hamburger.”

  She glanced up toward his face to see if he was buying it. His lips looked frozen in a little O. He was terror-struck. There was no denying the powerful thrill of satisfaction that rippled through her. This sudden shift of power felt mighty good. She had the makings of a vigilante after all.

  She pushed the gun harder against him. His erection had collapsed, the condom wrinkled like a deflated balloon.

  “You wanted to know my question, Sheriff. Here it is, real simple. Who paid you off in 1970?”

  The only sound in the room was his labored breathing.

  “You owe me an answer. If you don’t tell me, I’ll shoot one of these fine Black Talons into your soft tissue right here,”—she gave him a jab—“and I’ll do it with pleasure.” She looked up at his face, which had turned a dark red. “You understand?”

  He grunted.

  “Okay. Someone gave you fifty thousand. I know that. Who was it?”

  “No one.” His voice was a croak.

  She applied more pressure. He whined and squirmed on the bed.

  “Go ahead and move again. Give me an excuse. Gelding you would be a public service. Who was it?”

  “You don’t want to know.” His voice quavered.

  “Who was it?”

  He was silent.

  She’d been afraid of this. She needed to convince him she was serious. She pressed her left thumb against his scrotum right next to the gun muzzle. Then she lowered the gun two inches so it was aiming into the side of the mattress. She closed her eyes and fired.

  The explosion shook the small room. He sat up with a shriek, tears running down his face. Molly was dazed and deafened. Crocker made a grab for her arm, still screaming.

  She jabbed the gun into his scrotum, hard.

  He shrieked again.

  “Lie down!” she shouted, cocking the gun.

  Whimpering, he lowered himself back on the dirty sheets. “Oww. Stop,” he begged. “Please stop.”

  “That was just a warning. The next one will end your sorry sex life. Who was it?”

  “You won’t like it.” His voice was high with fear and pain.

  She pressed harder with the gun. “Who?”

  He said in a whisper, “Parnell Morrisey.”

  “What?”

  He spoke it louder. “Parnell Morrisey.”

  “You liar,” she hissed.

  “It’s true,” he croaked.

  “No.”

  “Yes. Molly, really.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Really. The day we got the body he came to ID it and he gave me the money then, in cash.” He was talking fast. “Parnell Morrisey. The senator. Right there in my office. All I had to do was call it a suicide and not follow up on the leads, not pull the houseboat up for a while. That’s the truth, so help me God. Put that gun away, please. Let me sit up.”

&nbs
p; Molly’s blood thrummed at her temples. “No.”

  “I swear it. Let me up. I feel sick.”

  She pressed the gun harder into his groin. He groaned. “You’re hurting me bad.”

  “Good.”

  “I told you what you wanted.”

  “Why should I believe a weasel like you?”

  “If I was gonna lie, I would’ve given you some other name.” His voice shook. “He told me back then you might be a problem. That you were just a kid, but you were real smart and you never gave up on things. He said not to tell you anything. That’s why I never gave you any information.”

  Molly felt herself deflating as if she’d pumped herself up with phony, hot-air courage and it was all leaking out, leaving her limp and pathetic like that miserable condom. If this was true, what did it mean?

  “Who killed my daddy?” The question came out like a plea.

  “I don’t know what happened. God as my witness, I don’t know.”

  “Parnell?” she asked, amazed she could even entertain the idea.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Far as I know, it was a suicide, just like I called it.”

  “But why would he pay you off?”

  “I don’t know. Let me sit up. I can’t breathe. I feel sick—”

  Molly backed up on her knees. She kept the gun pointed at his groin. “Okay, sit up.”

  He swung his legs up on the bed and scootched back to lean against the headboard. His face was blotched, wet with tears, and some long strands of mucous hung from his nostrils.

  “Put your hands on your belly so I can see them,” she said.

  He did it. “Leave now,” he whined, “and I won’t tell anyone about this.”

  “Oh, you won’t tell anyone.” Her entire body was going numb, as though a shot of Novocaine was taking effect. The fear and anxiety were retreating.

  “Where’s your checkbook, Sheriff?”

  He pointed to a small roll-top desk against the far wall.

  “I’m going to fetch it for you. Don’t you even twitch.”

  She stood carefully, keeping the gun on him, and backed up to the desk. “Where?”

  “Inside. One of the cubbyholes.”

  “Which one?”

  “Top right.”

  Without looking, she reached in and groped around until she found a plastic-covered checkbook and a ballpoint pen.

  She walked back and stood over the bed. “Here’s the deal. You’re going to make out a check, payable to Sylvia Ramos. Remember her?”

  His ravaged face was blank.

  “You remember. Pretty Mescan girl. Travis County Jail, 1975, one of your Miracle Massage recruits. The amount of the check will be a hundred thousand dollars. It’s a charitable contribution, so you’ll be able to deduct it. On that little line where you write what it’s for you’ll write ‘Casa Christine.’ That’s Christine as in Christine Fanon. Remember her?”

  His mouth hung open in disbelief, as though a ghost had just passed in front of him.

  “She’s dead, of course—drug overdose—but because you want to make some small gesture to atone for all the harm you’ve done, you’re going to contribute to her memorial—a shelter for young prostitutes. It’s appropriate since young women in need have been a longtime interest of yours.”

  She dropped the checkbook on his stomach and the pen on the mattress. “Go ahead. Write the check.”

  He opened the checkbook. He began to write, painfully slowly, having difficulty controlling his shaking.

  “Make it nice and legible, Sheriff. I will Fed Ex it to Sylvia,” Molly told him. “The amazing thing is, when I leave here you’re not going to stop payment on it. And you will not do anything to retaliate against me or Sylvia Ramos or anyone associated with this matter.” She managed a smile. “I bet you want to know why you’re not going to do those things.”

  He finished writing the check. She picked it up and examined it. He’d done it just the way she’d instructed. She made a move to put it in her pocket and discovered she was still in her underwear. Suddenly she wanted desperately to get dressed, but didn’t know how to do it and still hold the gun on him, so she folded the check and stuck it in her bra.

  “Now, Sheriff, do you want to keep this place and the four hundred thou you’ve got in CDs at the bank? Actually three hundred now, isn’t it?” She looked at him, waiting for an answer, but he was staring down at his hands.

  “Well, I think you do. You want to continue being a gentleman farmer. At age sixty-one you don’t want to go back to being a dumb hick with nothing in the world.

  “Listen good. If you stop payment on this check or if you tell anyone about tonight—not that you’ll feel much like talking about it—here’s what’s going to happen to you.” She slowed her speech, pronouncing each threat for maximum impact. “I will do everything in my power to see you convicted of sexual assault, indecency with a child, and any other charges we can dream up. I have a war chest of almost a half million to spend on this—investigators, lawyers, the works. You know where I got the money? My father’s life insurance. One hundred thousand invested since 1970 in tax-free bonds, compounding and growing, never touched. I’ve been saving that money for you, Sheriff, and I am willing to spend every cent of it pursuing you. If I don’t put you in prison, then I will bankrupt you. You might beat the rap, but the ride will cost you everything you’ve got.

  “Your ex-wives—Ruth, Jeanette, and especially Kelly—are going to cooperate. They don’t like you much. And the private investigator I’ve had on your case has come up with the names of several minor girls. When I use my contacts in the media to send out the call for other young women who have been abused by you, we will be flooded with responses. You have spread your seed widely, Olin.”

  Molly was studying his face. It was gray and sullen. “You understand me? I want an answer.”

  “I understand you,” he said in a barely audible voice.

  “Good. I’m going to give you another chance now to tell the truth. You’ll want to take this chance because I’ll check it out and if I find you’ve lied I will feed you, piece by piece, into the meat grinder of our legal system. Have you told me the truth tonight? Was it Parnell Morrisey who paid you fifty thousand in 1970?”

  “Yes, but it was sixty thousand,” he said.

  Molly felt certainty like a lead lump in her stomach. She believed him.

  “Now, Sheriff,” she said, “how am I going to get out of here? Do I have to tie you up like you’ve been doing some kinky bondage and call 911 on my way home to come rescue you? Or shall I just leave?”

  “Just leave. For God’s sake, just fucking leave.”

  The sound of rain beating down on the roof stopped her for a moment. She wondered how long it had been raining without her hearing it. “You were right about the rain,” she told Crocker. “Oh, one other thing. I’m a writer, so of course I’ve written all this down. My lawyer and my editor both have copies, so trying to do me harm would cause you no end of trouble. And I’ll be watching over your ex-wives and those little girls you statutory-raped to make sure you don’t contact or threaten them.” She poked the gun into his abdomen. “You hear me, Sheriff?”

  He nodded.

  Without taking her eyes off him, Molly bent and scooped up her jeans and shirt. She got her purse from the dresser and approached the bed. She reached her foot underneath and nudged the shotgun out. It was tricky, but she stuffed her clothes under her arm and picked up the gun with her left hand. “I’ll leave this at the end of the driveway.”

  She backed to the door. “Count to a hundred, please, before you get up.”

  “Get the fuck out of my house.”

  “Thanks for your generous contribution. And, Sheriff—you’re one lucky son of a bitch. You’re getting off easy tonight. But you’re going to be under surveillance from now on and, if you mess with any more underage girls, you will end up in jail. That’s a promise, and you have cause to know that I never forget a promise.”

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nbsp; She took one last look at him. He was just a naked old man shivering on his bed, tears oozing from under his closed eyelids.

  By the time Molly got halfway back to Austin, the rain had cooled the air so much she had to roll up the window. She was shivering, still in her underwear.

  OLD MOTHER GOOSE,

  WHEN SHE WANTED TO WANDER,

  WOULD RIDE THROUGH THE AIR

  ON A VERY FINE GANDER.

  —MOTHER GOOSE

  Sarah Jane Hurley wakes in the rain. It’s dark and she is lying on the ground, one arm still embracing her tree. She loves the feel of the rain, each drop a laughing baby’s kiss, cooling her burning skin. Steam is rising from her body, all her anger burned away, vaporized into the darkness.

  It is the first time in years she hasn’t awakened in fear.

  She opens her mouth and lets the rain feed her. She’s very, very dry and it is giving her exactly what she needs.

  It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring, fell out of bed and broke his head, and couldn’t get up in the morning. She used to sing it to Tom and Ellie on rainy mornings when she’d get them up for school, and before that, Gramma used to sing it to her.

  If it hadn’t rained so hard the morning of the fire, they all said, her children would have died. Tom and Ellie would have been burned alive in the back bedroom. A godsend, a blessing, everyone agreed. It’s the thing she’s most thankful for in this life. To think about it makes her tremble—such a close call. She was saved by the grace of the rain.

  For years she hasn’t let herself think about it. Now it seems important to remember. She lets the memory wash over her and flow out, her gift to the tree. Tom was five and Ellie was seven. Sarah Jane had been out most of the night drinking. Lady Bird, Lady Bird, fly away home. She got home at four in the morning and was smoking on the sofa in the living room so she wouldn’t have to go into the bedroom and face Harold’s angry preaching. She fell into a deep drunken sleep, and the cigarette dropped from her fingers to the floor. It set the newspapers on fire and that set the curtains on fire and then the chair. And instead of coming her way as it should have, the fire crawled along the carpet to the hall and back to the children’s room and there it set some wood toys on fire, and then the covers hanging off Tom’s bed, and then his Kermit the Frog pajamas, and then the perfect soft baby skin of his arm. Your house is on fire, your children will burn.