by Lee Thompson
Pat undid his belt and pulled his dick out and stroked himself as he looked into a book nailed to the wall. Tiff pointed at him, her finger trembling, other hand over her mouth. Wylie, on the bed, buried his head in her shoulder as he plowed into her, trying to distract her love, break the spell of her distress. Pat said, “These girls, God,” his mouth a phantasm of crooked teeth oiled red, hand a blur, breath heavy, labored.
Tiff screamed and it echoed, bounced off the walls until everyone cringed. Morgan, coloring on the floor, looked up and put her hands over her ears. She looked at the Wylie by the door, trapped in his rut, and said, “Get ready.”
Ready? For what?
Morgan bowed her head and colored faster. Pat picked at a wound on his arm and blood sprayed over the wall, and the book full of pictures. He came with the release, splattered his shoes.
Tiff wiped sweaty hair out of her eyes and pushed herself up against the headboard, put her face in her hands. “I feel terrible. I love Pat the way you love me and no one ever gets what they want because none of us knows what we’re doing wrong.”
Wylie on the bed hit her, once, twice, three times, the cords of muscle rippling beneath his flesh, his madness, until Tiff’s pale face bled red.
She screamed again and a naked woman with a raven’s mask pecked at an albino deer’s back, tore strands of tissue free and gobbled them down, beak up, throat flexing. Wylie on the bed pounded his fists against the wall. Tiffany said, “Kill me” through shattered teeth, blood dripping from the point of her chin. She glared at Pat’s back, and how he’d turned away from her. Her face went purple as Wylie threw her legs apart and rammed into her. He choked her, slapped her, screamed, “Look at me!”
Pat faced the wall where the book hung drenched in the light spilling from the bedroom. He dipped his fingers into a picture of a teenage girl and drew his hand away, licked the clear fluid from his fingertips, smiling, his pale ass jiggling as his hips thrust forward, back, forward.
Morgan leaned against the wall and stared at Wylie by the door. He cried, “Don’t watch this.”
She whispered, “We have to.”
He knelt and spread his arms, wanting to keep her safe, avert her eyes. Avert his own. Morgan hugged him and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said as she ran a small, fragile hand back through his hair. Wylie jerked back, scared of her touch, her words.
“Sorry for what?”
Morgan pointed to where Tiff lay beneath the Wylie on the bed, her corpse drawing flies that buzzed like a static filled TV. The noise grew, a roar, a tornado. Wylie covered his ears and looked down at her through his other self. He felt her coldness beneath him, seeping through his thighs and stomach; stroked her hair and pulled away dry clumps that eroded beneath his touch. Tiff’s face fell apart like wet paper and sobs echoed from within her ruined body.
“Help me help her!”
Morgan tapped his shoulder, standing next to him on the bed. He begged, “Please!” The child’s eyes closed and an alien tongue spilled from between her chapped lips. Chills climbed Wylie’s back and he shivered against the drying husk he’d once loved. Pat held a picture of a naked teen out as he rubbed himself raw.
Tiffany burned, a fire that singed Wylie’s eyelashes, stench staining his nostrils. Morgan knelt next to him and licked his tears away as her mother turned to ash. She blew out a breath and the particles took flight like dust motes in the slanted light clawing through the cracks. Pat breathed her in as he came again, eyes rolling back in his head, a whisper unheard stuck to his lips.
Morgan rubbed Wylie’s back and whispered, “Now she’s where she wants to be. Close to his heart again. Part of him. One.”
The naked girl donning the raven’s head wrapped her bleeding wings around Wylie.
The flies buzzed.
They roared.
Wylie woke to a scream. He trembled and ran his hands over his shoulders, trying to get the demon’s wings off him. Sucking in a hot breath, heart hammering, he stood. His phone vibrated inside his pants pocket. He’d bought it secretly to talk to Tiff every chance he could. Her name showed on the screen. The log lay next to him, creaking as if pushed by a mighty wind. He smelled fire.
* * *
Tiffany cleaned up the gift Pat left on her face. She dabbed the loose flap of flesh over her left eye with a cotton swab soaked in peroxide. She flinched every time it touched her skin, her lips quivering as much from a deeper pain than the surface one as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. For once, she surprised herself. She didn’t cry. Didn’t moan. After throwing the cotton swab in the trash under the sink and putting a butterfly Band-Aid over the tear of flesh, she walked into the kitchen in a numb haze. The bottle hidden behind the cereal beckoned her. She pulled it out and threw it in the trash, ran her hand over the tender left side of her face.
The alcohol isn’t helping anything. You’ve got to do something else here if you ever want things to get better.
In the living room, she looked at the door to Pat’s den; stared at it, something working through her guts, a feeling like dread. He’d never allowed her in there, and so far she’d respected his wishes.
But when does he respect mine?
In the doorway, she looked into the gloom-filled room. Pat never said what he and Herb had argued about. Not that she’d expected him to communicate like a civilized human being. Parts of their conversation, Herb’s tone, accusations, sprouted up and withered before she could piece together what they meant. “What are you hiding, honey? What does the mayor know that I don’t?”
She entered the den.
The room smelled musty and though he kept it organized, it needed dusting. She resisted the urge to go get her cleaning supplies from the utility closet. Letting him know she invaded his personal space would only make matters worse. She sat in the chair and opened the desk drawer on the right side. A black, leather bound book sat on top of a bunch of manila folders. Pulling it out, she laid it on her lap and traced the frayed binding with her index finger. She took a deep breath, her head clouded with images of his fist, his lips peeled back, his crooked teeth, spots of black on his gums that made her think a cancer, whether of the body or of the soul, dominated him.
She opened the book.
On the first page a young Vietnamese girl stared at her from a black and white photo. The girl lay naked, curled in a ball, a lump on her jaw, dark gray patches in her legs like fingerprint indentions. Tiffany turned the page and another. Half way through, she lost count of the nameless, naked girls consumed with fear.
She flipped to the back page. “Oh God, this is recent.” The girl was American, brunette, large blue eyes and a cautious smile that bit at Tiffany’s memory of her own forgotten childhood. It looked like a school year book photo. Flipping back through the last few pages, her eyes misty, she found eight others.
“What the hell is this?”
Tiffany closed the book, carried it out into the living room and set it on the couch. Her hands wouldn’t stay still and it hurt to swallow. She went into her bedroom and opened the dresser drawer, sunshine slanting through the window, falling on dirty sheets. Pat had slept in them all this time, knowing that another man had left his funk there. She didn’t know how he did it. Imagining Pat screwing another woman would have broken her heart.
The girls’ faces flashed through her mind, snap shots of his time in Vietnam, a few years before she’d met him, and those pictures more recent, those that looked like he’d stole them right from the girls’ houses. Her anger burned away the numbness. She reached into the drawer, unsure why she’d ignored it all day. Pulling out the pistol that Wylie had left her, her jaw ached, eyes narrowed.
A dark voice, one she didn’t recognize, whispered with venom, Make him answer your questions. Make him tell you who those little girls are.
Stepping into the hall, she glanced at Morgan’s door, glad her daughter was at school. Tiffany sat on the couch and tore the pictures out of their cages. She grabbed steak
knives and pinned them to the walls of their home, and stared at the last girl’s picture for a moment. The brunette.
Oh my God. I know you.
She grabbed the revolver from the coffee table and paced. Her anger flared, pushed to the apex, until she wanted to burn the house down and let Pat sift through the pieces. I need to take care of this before Morgan gets home. She can’t be here to see us kill each other.
She grabbed her phone, and jammed her fingers over the buttons.
“Come on, Wylie. Answer.”
* * *
Cat screamed, “John, where are you going now?”
I opened the door to my Jeep and stuffed her cell phone in my pocket. “I’ll be right back.”
She slammed the back door of our house and I climbed into the driver’s seat and backed out onto the street. Glancing to my right I saw her through the living room window.
Please be patient, baby. Please.
A half mile up the road, Pat strode along the shoulder, fists swinging, shoulders bunched, the back of his shirt drenched with sweat.
I’d stop and offer you a lift, but I have to get to the station before you. And you wouldn’t want a ride anyway.
At the cross roads, where main intersected 87, my heart slammed in my chest. Wylie’s truck was parked on the corner, my old friend staring the half-mile at Pat walking toward him.
Chapter 17
I pulled over and parked next to Wylie’s Ford. Wylie had his hands clasped together, forearms braced on the hood. He stared at Pat, walking toward us down the shoulder of the road, a far-off look in his eyes. Getting out of the Jeep, I wondered if Wylie had stolen and burned the sheriff’s car, just to push things to the point where blood spilled and hidden hurts were settled. I didn’t think Wylie was capable of that, but I couldn’t be sure either. People did strange things sometimes, unexpected things, in their frustration.
“You need to hit the road, Wylie.”
Wylie’s eyes went glassy, the skin at his neck throbbing, pulse racing. “I don’t have nowhere to be but right here.”
“Pat’s got a gun.”
“Do you really think he’ll use it? He’s gonna try to hit me like he does Tiff. After this though, he’ll never lay a hand on her again.”
I glanced up the road again. Pat kept moving forward, a football field away, his pistol dangling from his hand. “We can talk about you fucking up with her later. Right now, you need to get the hell out of here. He’ll shoot you.”
Wylie shook his head and stepped around the front of his truck. “I’m going to beat him to a pulp.”
I looked in the bed of Wylie’s truck and saw the tire iron. I grabbed it. Wylie took a step forward, and hot air kicked free of the hood, riding a breeze. I stepped around the front-end and slammed the tire iron on the back of his head. Wylie crumpled, hands in his hair, red. I looked up, as I knelt over him, saw Pat start running, raising his pistol.
We have to move!
I dragged Wylie to the passenger side of the old Ford and muscled him onto the bench seat. Blood splattered cracked vinyl.
A shot rang out and dust kicked up ten feet in front the pickup. “Jesus Christ!” I climbed over Wylie, got behind the wheel, my mouth dry. I cranked the ignition and a plume of black smoke and the stench of a carb running rich slapped the air. Throwing the transmission in reverse, I heard another shot, heard metal ping. “Motherfucker!”
I threw the truck in drive and floored it, did a U-turn, pointing us back toward the heart of town and the station that waited on the south side.
* * *
My face grew hot as we raced through Division. It reminded me of yesterday, after waking in the forest, later speeding through town. People had the same look on their faces, quick to judge, not considering that maybe there was a reason I made Wylie’s truck a bullet.
At the station, I whipped the pickup off the street and into the alley where I’d left the cruiser yesterday, before going home. Road dust glared off the windshield. I threw the gearshift into park and looked at Wylie bleeding all over the seat. “Shit. I’ve got to get you somewhere Pat won’t find you and stitch that up.”
I jumped out, palms sweating. Hot air smothered the alley. I went to the passenger door of the car, wishing I’d brought my pistol in case Pat caught us. I stared at the back door, red steel matching the color of the bricks, a rusty handle, hinges.
I could get a shotgun from inside.
I trembled and wiped sweat from my forehead.
A blur of red shot by outside the alley’s mouth. I wiped my eyes, disbelieving. Pat had stolen my Jeep. I almost felt like chuckling, thinking: Commandeered it. The man’s craziness amazed me. I opened the passenger door and looked back to the street to make sure Pat hadn’t seen us and turned around.
Jesus. Tiffany.
I snatched the bowl from the passenger floorboard, surprised again by its weight. Not sure where to put it, certain I didn’t want it spilling open, I took a look in the cab. Nothing offered me any comfort. In the box, where I’d grabbed the tire iron from, Wylie’s gas can and bar oil sat in a milk crate. I jerked them out and set the bowl in it.
There.
I let out a long breath and went to the back door, hoping the brat inside didn’t call Pat.
* * *
Standing next to the couch, Cat pulled Ethan into her arms. He squirmed against her chest. “Stop it!” She shook him and he cried, pushing at her face. She shook him harder. “Calm down, damnit!” He slid from her grasp and she almost dropped him. She let him fall onto the couch, frustrated. He bounced forward and knocked his head on the coffee table. Cat screamed as a trickle of blood ran from the center of Ethan’s forehead. She knelt and picked him up as he cried. “I’m so sorry. Momma didn’t mean that.”
She rubbed his back, Ethan’s face pressed to her shoulder, her heart churning over how things used to be better, easier. Before John had started the deputy job, before Mark had died. She tried to push away Mark’s death, tell herself that it didn’t matter. But it did.
I still love him.
Someone knocked on the back door. Cat barely heard it over her son’s bleating. A drip of red ran into the corner of his eye and she wiped it away with the end of her sleeve. “I’m sorry, honey.” She hugged him to her chest and walked through the dining room, into the hall, past the washer and dryer and put her hand on the doorknob. A shadow showed through the lacy white curtain. She opened the door and froze as a shadow fell over her. A man crossed the threshold. Something hot pressed to the side of her neck. She jumped, dropped Ethan. Swimming blackness overpowered her as she fell forward, felt someone envelope her, Ethan’s blood hot on the back of her hand.
* * *
A fan spun on Pat’s desk, circulating hot air. Elizabeth looked up from a magazine. “Pat’s not here.” She wrinkled her nose at me.
“Yeah, I know it. He said there’s a dispute out on Vista Road. Wanted me to grab a shotgun and meet him out there.”
“That call never came through here.”
I stopped in front of the gun rack, the scent of oil in the air. “Excuse me?”
“What are you, dense? The call never came through here. Dispatch? Hello?” She shook her head.
And here I thought you just sat there being obnoxious all day.
I said, “He ran across it while he was out making his rounds.”
“Really?” She smiled. “And he still would have called it in so I could have called you in your car.”
“He knew I didn’t have my car.”
“Why not? You should always have your car.”
“I’m learning, okay?”
Her smile widened. “I’m just messing with you. But really, you’re not a very good deputy.”
“I know. It’d help if I had someone showing me what I was supposed to do.”
“Don’t blame me.”
“I’m not.”
She stood and picked up the phone. “I better call Pat.”
“For what? I’ll see him
shortly.”
“Did you just call me shorty?”
I grabbed a shotgun and held it to my chest. “No. But if you call Pat I’ll shoot you. Is that what you want?”
Beth Ann laughed. “Put me out of my misery? That sounds great. It’s not like anyone cares anyway.”
God, girl. Will you stop with the self-pity? You’re worse than I am.
“If you want to talk about all the things that bother you sometime, that’s cool. I’ll listen. But you can’t call Pat.”
“Why not? What’s going on?”
I racked a shell into the chamber. “I’m not playing. If you call him…” I pointed the gun at her stomach. She watched me for a moment and it made me uncomfortable. She put the phone to her ear, her left arm extended to push the buttons, to dial the number.
Even if I shot the wall next to her it wouldn’t do any good. People would hear it and someone would come running over. I was afraid of hitting her by accident anyway, or having to pay for repairs. Bank account and conscience were sapped enough. I strode over and smashed the phone’s terminal with the butt of the shotgun. Beth Ann backed up to the wall. “Are you crazy?”
“A little. If you talk to him it’s only going to make matters worse. Trust me. Okay?”
She shook her head. “I don’t trust anyone.”
“I know how you feel.”
“No you don’t.”
“I meant what I said. If you need someone to talk to sometime, feel free. But right now I have to stop—”
“Stop what?”
Stop Wylie from bleeding. Stop Pat from killing Tiffany. Stop myself from letting this darkness destroy me.
“Is there a medical kit around here, Beth Ann?”