“I called you a few weeks ago. Then again and again. You didn’t answer. You never just fucking answer,” he grunts through tight lips. “The morning after the barbeque, I saw Milly packing her bags and leaving. I watched it as I had my morning coffee. I thought, well maybe she's going out of town. But I'm a fucking cop, Sam. I couldn't help but notice the look on her face, like she'd seen the devil.” He rubs his face with both hands, temporarily removing the gun's aim on me. “But I didn't even think it had anything to do with you. Because you're my fucking brother, man. I let that shit cloud me. So I brushed it off after asking around. No one knew anything. But she's new. Maybe she just didn't feel like telling a bunch of strangers her business.”
He pauses for a moment to absorb. I can see him cataloguing everything from our past, making the connections the way an experienced officer would. He's just like dad, and it makes me sick. It's like dad is still here, still fucking judging me, still looking at me like a disappointment.
“I'm busy. So I didn't think much about it. Honestly, I have been so fucking sick of chasing you down, trying to make you feel welcome, I thought I’d give you your space. Even when I called you a few more times, I just wanted to check in on my brother and if Milly came up, great. But it did irk me that she never came back. Like an itch I couldn’t scratch. Until yesterday when I saw a moving truck and a crew moving her stuff out. Eventually she showed up. I could've let it go. I could've said it wasn't my business. God, I almost wish I had. But I crossed the street and went up to Milly, friendly-like. When she looked at me, there was this look in her eyes. First fear, then anger. I pretended I didn't notice, asked her why she was moving. Just friendly talk. She didn't answer me, just kept carrying her things to her car. I kept pressing, wondering what I had done until she snapped. 'Why don't you ask your brother?' That's what she said.”
I sigh, hating myself for losing control like that. It's those little mistakes that lead to your sheriff-brother pointing a gun at you in your living room.
“It hit me in the gut, you know? Because I never really said it, Sam. And I try to show it. But I feel like shit for the way things happened. For being a little dick and racing off the day that car hit you. And I know you think that I kept my distance growing up because I was a shitty brother, but it was because every time I saw the scars on you, it made me sick to my stomach with guilt. And I have been trying so hard. Despite all the smugness, and the seething looks, and every fucking avoidance tactic under the sun. So when she said that, I felt sick again. Because I knew that there was something I didn't want to know.”
My throat should feel tight. I should feel trepidation about any words that might come from my lips. But finally sharing a secret is a great relief. I finally feel like I can be myself. Suddenly, the invisible hand gripping my neck releases.
“Well, I'm glad you think I owe you my undying gratitude because one day you woke up and decided not to be a cock.”
“God, you are such an asshole,” Scoot groans. “I am so tired of your fucking 24-7-365 pity party. You're fucking unbelievable. You should be…BEGGING me right now.”
“You have no fucking idea!” I shout. “No fucking idea what it was like to be me. You got to be free. Dad didn't wake you up in the middle of the night and make you swim until you'd drown because he hated you. Because he thought that your birth was the reason mom got worse with her fucking delusions. You only had to see mom a few hours a week, and then you both drove off and I was here! I was here being held fucking prisoner.”
“I am so sick of this shit, Sam!” Scoot shouts, punching his pistol into the air as he jumps to his feet. “Here's the thing no one had the balls to tell you. Except dad, and it's why you hated him so much. You were a fucking weird kid. You always were. We all saw the strangeness. You weren't right. You were never right. And you aren't the first person to be different, you know. You can blame mom and dad, or me…but it was always there. Mom fucking knew it. Maybe she couldn't bring herself to see it that way. But, that's why she had you out here and that's why dad let it happen!”
“There it is,” I chuckle. “Underneath all the caring and checking in, that's how you really feel. I like that! No bullshit. It's dad reincarnated.”
Scooter jolts a step towards me, keeping the gun trained on me so I don't move.
“You're a sick fuck. I should shoot you right here. I came over you know, to find out what the fuck Milly was talking about. I sure as hell knew you wouldn’t answer the phone if I called. You’re not here and all the pictures are gone. I'd thought you'd finally lost it like mom. Something felt off. I go to the barn, and I see a pool of blood, trails of it throughout the barn, leading outside. I tell myself, maybe he's dead, maybe someone came here and did that to him. Because he's fucking weird, but he's not psychotic. My gut tells me to follow the trail into the woods. It's well worn. It's being used a lot these days, I can tell. Twigs were snapped along the whole way, like someone had been running. I thought I'd find you out there. And then I see her. I see the fucking girl who was all over the news, whose fucking picture is tacked up onto my office wall, who I have lost so much sleep over because we have nothing to go on, who was taken by a serial home invader and rapist and my brain is fucking exploding because suddenly it's all clear…” Scoot lets out a wail, agony so strong it's physical. “It's you. You check all the boxes. You knew how the police work because of dad and me. Your job keeps you mobile. You're strong and athletic. You're isolated so no one would notice your late night excursions. But there was one thing I didn't get…no one ever mentioned a stutter. Clearly that would be the first thing anyone would mention. Is anything about you even real?”
I glower at him, feeling a sense of satisfaction that I fooled that smart ass for so long. “Oh, very fucking real.”
“I should fucking kill you!” he screams, prodding the gun in my direction, tears running down his cheeks.
I brace myself, but just like I can't do it to him, I know he can't pull that trigger.
“Whose blood was that? In the barn?” he asks. “She didn’t have a scratch on her. Are there others?”
“No.”
“Then whose blood is that!” he demands.
I shift on my feet as I stall. He wouldn’t understand this, and I am in no mood to explain. The partly rolled up sleeves of my shirt move enough for him to see some stitches.
“What the fuck?” he mutters. “Pull off the shirt,” he orders.
I don’t move.
“Do it!” he waves the gun at me.
I sigh in protest as I pull it off, the t-shirt underneath doesn’t hide the various tracks of thread along my arms.
“Did she do that?”
“No. It was me. I’ve never hurt her.”
He stares at me puzzled for a few beats. “You are fucking deranged, man.”
I snicker.
“Did you even think about the rest of us? The family name? I wanted to run for mayor, then maybe even governor someday. It's why I followed in dad's footsteps, to show that despite the money, I could do the hard work like everyone else. You knew that was my dream. My career will be over! Our name will be dragged through the mud if this gets out. “
If. The self-preservation of wealth and power trumps all.
“All the lives you've destroyed. And what about our family? What about Uncle Tommy?”
Our uncle, the senator.
“Oh you mean the family that made sure we stayed nice and quiet up here? Not a single one of them ever bothered to visit, you know? Even when mom died hardly a person showed up at the hospital. They just made sure mom was quiet. They made sure the money flowed. That we didn't embarrass our family. Yup, the Hunters and the Ridgefields, great American families! They can't be sullied by a paranoid woman and her retard son! I don't give a fuck about what happens to them!” I scream with wild eyes.
Scoot stares at me for a while, like he finally saw the beast in me. The one I hid under chronic underestimations and manipulation.
“She didn'
t beg for help you know? I think she thought I was you and she made this comment in cutesy tone. I found her in that little shack in the woods. The place looked like a train ran through it. What the fuck did you do to her?”
I don't plan on saying anything, but he stops me anyway.
“You know what? I don't wanna know. I don't wanna hear a word of it. I know enough. I know what you've already done you sick fuck.”
I glare at him. These words are empty. I want to know what he's going to do about this. Is this the end? I need to hear it.
“So what now?” I ask.
He paces in a roundabout way, rubbing his temples with the base of his palms, the gun still planted in his hands. He's a sickly pale green and it looks like he could pass out at any moment.
He snickers. “You've ruined my life. You know that?” he asks. “No matter what I do, you've ruined my fucking life. Every time I look at my son…” his voice weakens, “his eyes, his smile, the way he laughs, I'll see you. I'll wonder if he's so much like you that he'll become you. That he's got your fucked up sickness. But unlike you, I love my family, and I am not going to put them through this…I'll do anything for them.” He sits down and buries his head in his hands, like he can't look at me for what he's about to say. Like he probably will never be able to look at himself again.
“I want you to leave town. I don't ever want to see you again. You're dead to me and every family member. You have your trust, stocks, real estate— you can work anywhere, you can sell this whole fucking farm for plenty. I don't want it, not after the vile shit that has gone on in here. Then we're done. I owe you one. Maybe you're like this because of me. The doctors said you might be different because of the way you hit your head. But no one ever told you directly. We thought we could ignore it and it'd be fine. You were strange anyway. But fine. You were different after that coma. Fine. I accept that maybe in some way I had a hand in this. But then we're even. And you are nothing to me.”
I don't show it, but I couldn't be happier with the verdict. I don't have to pretend with him anymore.
“And you have to get rid of her.”
“What?” I snap.
“You heard me. I don't mean take her with you. I mean there can't be a trace of her. The possibility she'd tell her story. She saw my face, Sam.”
“No,” I shake my head. “You fucking do it if this is your master plan.”
“This is your mess, you fucking clean it up!” he shouts, raising the gun a little higher to remind me this is not a democracy.
He studies my face, the stone expression I had kept so artfully throughout our conversation must be lost.
“Oh, you fucker. You think you love her? You think you're even capable of that? You stole her from her house. Took her away from her life, her family. I'm sure you've raped her countless times. Like you did to the others. Maybe tortured her? Oooh, but this one's different,” he mocks. “You think that's love? You think you even know human emotion? You're not even an animal. Animals don't hurt people for kicks. You're a monster. A real fucking monster. You're the boogeyman. You've already killed her, you understand? I've seen victims who couldn't come back from less. You've probably got her head so fucked, she can't function out there. But if you don't get rid of her, I promise, I fucking promise I'll come back here with the full force of the law. Fuck reputations. Fuck family. And fuck your fucking freedom! I'll make sure you fry, and then you'll burn in hell! And she'll be paraded out for the world to see. And she'll just suffer for the rest of her life. So take the fucking offer!”
Somewhere in his diatribe, he had come towards me, so by the time we're done, he's in my face with his finger pointed at me and the other hand pressing the gun at my temple. Spittle is dripping from his bottom lip, the tiny capillaries in his eyes look like they’ll hemorrhage. Just like my dad when he’d get impatient during his “lessons.”
He blinks in rapid succession, giving his concentrated the rage a chance to dilute. “You can have a life, I just want mine back,” Scooter says more calmly as he steps back.
Warm whiskey-scented jagged breaths huff against my face as he waits for my acceptance.
“Tell me you'll take care of this,” he commands. “Tell me I'll never hear about you, or her again.”
My mantra comes to mind. Nothing is as important as my freedom. I'm not the type who wants his name all over the papers for what he's done. This is my secret. Well, now it's Scooter's too. But I'd rather die than go to jail. Than to have the world that never accepted me justify it all with what I've done. Just like Scoot's doing right now. This is great for him. He gets to tell himself I was always a freak, and that he never liked me because underneath it all, I was this. I was always a psycho. It was predetermined.
“Okay,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
“You need to be gone within three days. You can sell the house from out of town. Hire an agent. But you never step foot in this part of California again.” He starts for the door. I can't let him leave without something to stew on. I understand now nothing I say will make him change his mind. He's backed into a corner with all this. He doesn't want to turn me in.
“Just remember, Scoot. You're no fucking hero. You're not doing this for her or me, or even Katie and the kids. Dad had his hero complex, but at least he believed his own bullshit. You're doing this so you can live the charmed life you've always had. You play cop so you can pretend to be a commoner. But when the true test has come, when you have to really be one of them and let go of all the things that make you so fucking privileged, you've proven that it's all an act. Just remember, you'll have blood on your hands. I've never killed a person, and my first time will be because you wanted me to.”
He pauses, whips open the screen door and hesitates before turning back.
“Listen to you,” he sniggers, “that voice as crisp as a whistle. It's all that hiding that made it so hard for you to speak, wasn't it? It must have been so difficult, holding this secret for so long. We have a task force on you. We know how far back you've been going into houses, peeping. It's been a long time.” He squints, a mischievous smirk growing on his face. “But when you're you…
“Maybe.”
My curt answer turns his face red, the grin molding into a snarl. “I wish you were never born. You were a fucking mistake,” he seethes.
“I know.”
And with that, I am alone, finally free. Truly free. Not just at night, but in a few days, I’ll be a man with nothing to hold him back.
No one besides my brother, his wife and kids, and me visited my mother regularly as she lay dying in the hospital. Her parents had been dead for years, her brother did come once, but was busy with his work in the Senate. Cousins sent flowers and cards. The younger members of the family hadn't even met her. She was a distant idea, an aunt they had probably heard about but had never met. That's the way it always was. She had the name, and the Hunters always took care of their own, but they couldn't be bothered with the shame. She reminded them that despite the wealth going back to the Gold Rush, the positions of power they held in local and national government, the homes and boats and Stanford degrees, that they were not immune to everything.
It was sudden and slow. She had a wound she had been hiding from me. She didn't want to go to the hospital, as her paranoia had hit a new peak. It wasn't until I noticed her face was grey and clammy, and the festering smell in her room, that I finally got it out of her. She cut herself in the barn on a rusted piece of metal, when she was in better spirits weeks before. It had become infected and her mental state plummeted with the infection. She was in bed a lot that week, but that happened so often, her illness getting worse with age, that I didn't notice how sick she was until it was too late.
“We can't go!” she weakly pleaded like a child terrified to go to the dentist.
“Mom, this is enough!” I shouted. “No one is going to hurt you in the hospital! It can't get any worse,” I begged. The wound on her thigh reeked of puss, it was black where the pus was
n't overflowing, and the area surrounding it was swollen and a throbbing red.
I carried her out of the room, unsympathetic to her shouts and cries. My whole life I heeded her warnings, lived in a shadow to appease her, and now this very thing she claimed would protect us was killing her.
I sat in the waiting room as the doctors took her in. My instincts, the ones that I had honed over the years, allowing me to sneak into dozens homes and neighborhoods over the past ten years without being caught, they told me this would not end well. I knew eventually I would live a life without her. But I didn't think it would be this soon. My chest tightened at the thought of a world where I would be truly alone. A prisoner with no warden. A child with no mother. I was still that boy that nobody wanted but her. She wasn't perfect, but she was the only one who truly cared about me. No one else had ever showed me that type of unconditional love.
Finally, the doctor walked out. His face was solemn, and I knew my instincts didn't fail me again.
He spoke to me about sepsis, and how her organs were failing, antibiotics, making her comfortable, cautious hope. About preparing for her passing. That I should call people. Then he left me, sitting there, in shock.
I called Scooter and let him know he needed to come. And then I sat vigil for the next three days. Scooter couldn't do that. He had work and a family, and this wasn't for him. It was only appropriate that it should end with her and me alone, the way it had always been. On the last day she was mostly incoherent, sleeping as monitors beeped and IVs dripped. I could feel the life slipping away from her body.
It was on the third night, just after Scooter had left after a brief visit that she awoke. It was quiet in the wing. Most of the lights were dimmed, but her turquoise eyes shined as she blinked. I took her hand, not expecting her to have the strength to speak. But then she moved her lips, stuck and crusted from the lack of water. I wet them. The fog lifted from her eyes. She was lucid, and she knew.
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