Kill Devil Falls

by Brian Klingborg

  The next part of the plan was dicey. When Helen learned her car wouldn’t start, Teddy was to convince her to go with him to the Trading Post, leaving Rita alone in the jail. Given that Teddy was about as smooth as ground glass, Alice had her doubts he could pull it off. But pull it off he did.

  As the two of them set off down Main Street, Jesse entered the jail, using the spare key from Big Ed’s house. He’d hustled Rita into the woods, brandished one of Mike’s nasty-looking hunting knives, demanded to know where she’d put the money. Her unexpected response had been to lower her head and rush him like a bull, despite the fact that her hands were cuffed behind her back. She’d knocked him down, gotten on top of him, bit him savagely in the neck. In a panic, he’d pushed her to one side and recklessly slit her throat.

  Later, he showed Alice the bite wound. “What was I supposed to do, Alice? She latched on like a goddamn Rottweiler!”

  Meanwhile, Helen was being served coffee at the Trading Post, providing everyone with their iron-clad alibi. Apart from Jesse. Diverting suspicion from him had been a matter of split-second timing. After an exhausting run through the woods, Jesse entered the back door of the Trading Post, climbed up to the second floor, quickly washed himself in the bathroom, combed his hair. He changed into the fresh clothes Alice had set out and checked the time. He went to the kitchen, gulped down two more glasses of Scotch, belched, his breath potent enough to light a fire.

  Then he threw himself down the stairs.

  Alice knew the plan wasn’t perfect. It depended on a number of unpredictable variables. But it was feasible. It worked.

  Until Lee Larimer pissed on her parade.

  Alice assumed Larimer must have been hiding in the woods when Jesse dragged Rita out of the jail, probably looking to do the same thing—find out where she’d stashed the money and then kill her. Maybe Larimer thought Rita told Jesse where it was, so he’d followed Jesse back to the Trading Post, waited till everyone left, cut the electricity, and snuck in to beat the information out of him.

  So much for a neat and tidy resolution. Now the dead were piling up like firewood.

  But Alice was sure the money was still within grasp. From the start, Teddy had figured the most likely hiding place was the mine. If he was right, the fact that Rita refused to reveal its location to Jesse was immaterial. Maybe he or Big Ed had already been down there and found it. Maybe it was in the back of that Explorer he was driving around.

  Anyway, first Lawrence. Then the marshal. Then Teddy.

  Alice rooted around in Jesse’s nightstand but found nothing useful. She went over to her vanity, combed through dozens of makeup brushes, styling utensils, eyebrow scissors. In the end, the only remotely deadly instrument she came up with was a nine-inch, sterling silver hair stick with a wickedly pointed end. It would have to do.

  She slowly opened the bedroom door, poked her head out.

  Lawrence was no longer guarding the stairs. She heard him humming from down the hall. She tiptoed to the second bedroom.

  Lawrence sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to Alice, facing the goddess statue. He was drinking from the bottle of whiskey she’d placed at the altar as an offering. He’d opened the lids of the terrariums and removed some of her babies. The poor dears were coiled on the floor, too cold to move.

  The sacrilegious little shit!

  Lawrence sipped from the bottle, poked at a snake with his forefinger, completely oblivious. Alice gripped the hair stick like a dagger, crept toward him.

  “Well, that’s a hell of a story,” Helen said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “As much as it pains me to say, Teddy—I’m impressed.” The words were like putrid garbage in her mouth.

  “Oh, bullcrap,” he said.

  “Seriously. It’s like that thing Mike Tyson said: ‘Everyone has a plan, until they get punched in the mouth.’ You rolled with the punches. Stayed cool under pressure.”

  He shifted his stance, flinched in pain, touched his rib.

  “Well … ” he said.

  “A lot of people underestimated you. Didn’t they? Your dad, for one.”

  Teddy glowered. “He had it coming.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Listen, Helen, I kinda need to get this show on the road.”

  Helen reached up, pulled the elastic band from her ponytail, shook her hair out. “What are you going to do with the money?”

  Teddy snort-laughed. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  “I am curious about one thing,” Helen said.

  “No. No more questions.”

  “Why did you give me Rita’s old shirt?” She took a step forward. “You saved it all these years. It must be special to you.”

  “Stay right there, Helen.”

  Helen tugged at the shirt’s hem, drawing the fabric taut against her chest. “Maybe I remind you of her in some way?”

  “What? No!” But his eyes dropped down to her breasts.

  “We could almost be sisters, Rita and me.”

  Teddy raised the .357, pointed it at her face. “Shut up.”

  “Same dark hair, right? Dark eyes. Is that what you like?”

  She was filthy, bloody, bedraggled. A mess. But even so, she saw it in his eyes. The gnawing hunger. The desperate thirst.

  “Teddy.”

  He shook his head, his finger tightening on the trigger of the revolver.

  “Do you want to fuck me?”

  “I … Lord.” He blushed furiously, looked away.

  Helen shot forward, slapped the gun aside, punched Teddy in his rib cage. He gasped, fell to his knees. She closed her hands around the .357, twisted. Teddy’s grip loosened and the gun almost came free. But he managed to hold on.

  Helen kneed him in the side. He cried out. She tore the gun away, turned it on him. Teddy shoved her and she fell onto her back. Teddy crawled on all fours, pulled himself atop her legs, straddled her hips. She aimed the revolver at his face. Teddy wrapped his right hand around the barrel, wrenched it up toward the ceiling.

  His face was purple with rage and pain. Spit flecked his lips. An animalistic howl rose from his chest.

  Helen struggled under Teddy’s bulk. He controlled her wrist with one hand, began to slowly pry the gun loose with the other. Helen felt his strength, knew it was just a matter of time before he freed the revolver from her grasp. She let go of the gun with her right hand, thrust her fingertips into his ribs, felt something give.

  Teddy doubled over, screamed. Helen put her feet flat on the ground, arched her hips, and turned onto her right side, rolling Teddy off.

  She ended up on her knees, between Teddy’s thighs. He was still holding the barrel of the .357 with his right hand while she maintained a grip on the handle with her left. He thrashed wildly, jerking the gun back and forth. Helen wrapped her right hand over her left, jammed her forefinger into the trigger guard.

  She lurched to her feet, engaged in a desperate tug-of-war for control of the weapon. Then, using her superior leverage, she lowered the .357 inch by inch by inch down toward Teddy’s face.

  When it was lined up with the center of his forehead, she squeezed the trigger. But Teddy managed to slip a thumb under the hammer before it could strike the firing pin.

  “Helen … wait!”

  She pulled back, stripping the gun from his hands. He held out his palms, waved them frantically.

  “Don’t shoot! I surrender! I—”

  Helen fired. The contents of Teddy’s skull vomited onto the ground, a halo of blood and brain matter.

  Helen stumbled back against the wall of the shaft, slid down to sitting position. She took a moment to catch her breath, allow the shaking of her hands to subside.

  Teddy lay still, mouth open, frozen in the act of begging for mercy.

  Helen slowly got to her feet, stuffed the revolver into the back of her pants, grasped Teddy’s collar, lifted his head and shoulders. Bits of liquid matter dripped from the back of his head. She dragged hi
s body to the shaft wall, push-pulled him into a sitting position. She put a hand on his shoulder, pressed down. Teddy tipped over onto his side. She hauled him back upright. His head lolled like a Mickey Mouse balloon on a broken stick.

  She searched Teddy’s gun belt, located his key ring, detached it. She picked through the keys until she found the one for the Explorer. She removed it, dropped the rest in the dirt.

  Teddy’s glassy eyes stared at her reproachfully, a crater between his eyebrows large enough to poke a thumb into.

  “Suck it, you crazy sonofabitch,” she said.

  Helen placed her left foot onto Teddy’s lap. A jolt of pain shot up her leg. She gritted her teeth, lifted her right foot onto Teddy’s shoulder. His body crumpled an inch. She nearly fell, flapped her arms, regained her balance.

  She took a breath and pushed off with her right leg, using Teddy’s shoulder as a stepladder. She caught the edge of the trap door opening with both hands.

  Her left hand slipped off and she dangled by her right arm, swinging side to side. She managed to get a foot on the crown of Teddy’s head, base off it, slap her left hand back onto the lip of the opening. With a grunt and an upward pull, she hoisted a leg over the side. She hung like that for a moment, gathering her strength. Finally, she rolled herself out of the shaft and onto the floor of the basement.

  The hard metal of Big Ed’s .357 dug painfully into her back, but she was too exhausted to move. She lay there, feeling the vibration of the generator motor through the cement floor.

  When she was able to muster the strength, she sat up, got to her feet, and limped toward the stairs.

  20

  HELEN STEPPED OUT ONTO Yates’s front porch. The Explorer sat in the front yard, its single headlight a bright yellow orb in the night. She slowly descended the porch steps, walked over, dug the key from her pocket, unlocked it. She climbed into the cab, pulled the door shut.

  She placed the .357 on the passenger’s seat and noticed an object already lying there: the transmitter Teddy had showed her in the mine, in that chamber with the dynamite and det cord. She switched on the overhead light, picked up the transmitter, turned it over in her hands. It was dented, scratched, covered with grit and grime. She noted the on/off switch, and a trigger under the main body of the device. She flicked the switch, saw a green light flash. She carefully turned the transmitter off, very gently laid it back down next to the revolver.

  Helen craned her head around to look at the back seat. She saw the dirty duffel bag, along with a backpack and half-empty gym bag. She started up the engine.

  She backed onto Main Street, drove at a snail’s pace to the Trading Post, watchful for sinkholes, and rolled to a stop. She switched off the engine, grabbed the revolver, climbed out.

  She entered through the broken front door, listened. Silence. She wondered if Lawrence was dead. If Mrs. Patterson was huddled at the top of the stairs, Frank’s shotgun in her hands.

  Helen made her way through the market into the darkened restaurant. She put a hand on the wall for guidance, slowly, silently inched her way to the vestibule doorway. She knelt, searched with her hands. Her fingers touched fabric. She identified Yates by his hat, with its earflaps. But something was wrong.

  Frank’s body was missing.

  Helen called out, softly, “Lawrence. It’s me, Helen.”

  She extended the .357, pointed the barrel up toward the stairs. If someone was up there, it was too dark to see them. She slowly edged her way into the vestibule. Cold air wafting through the open back door ruffled her hair, whispered across her skin.

  A low growl raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Coonie.

  Helen sprang forward, slammed the back door shut just as Coonie attempted to race in from the yard. There was an enormous impact. Helen dropped the revolver, put her shoulder against the door.

  Coonie barked, his nails scratching against the wood.

  Helen knew the Kwikset lock was broken, useless, blown right out of the door by a shotgun blast. She ran her fingers along the door frame, struggling to keep Coonie from forcing his way in. A third of the way down from the top, she discovered a dangling chain and corresponding slide on the door. She tugged the chain, fumbled it into the slide.

  Now the door would open only a couple of inches. Not enough for Coonie to squeeze through.

  At least, that was the theory.

  Helen leaned down and patted the floor, trying to locate the .357. Coonie suddenly rammed the door, knocking her on her butt. The door popped open. Helen’s fingers touched metal. The revolver. She picked it up, spun around.

  Coonie shoved his nose and muzzle inside. He snarled, but he was too big to get through the gap.

  Helen prayed the chain held. Even after all the killing she’d done tonight, she didn’t want to shoot a dog.

  She backed away, to the foot of the stairs, looked up. She saw the dim glow of candlelight reflecting off of Lee’s tarp-covered torso.

  Helen crawled up the stairs, slipped by Lee Larimer’s body, snaked around the bannister.

  The door on her immediate right, the master bedroom, was closed. Further down, the wreckage of the bathroom door littered the hall floor. Directly across from the bathroom, Mrs. Patterson’s room was open, candlelight flickering within.

  A shadow played along the hallway wall. Someone was in there.

  Helen crept to the open doorway. She adjusted her grip on the revolver, entered the room in a low crouch.

  Lawrence sat with his back to Helen, wearing only his sweatpants, no shirt or jacket. He was fiddling with something, his shoulders and hands working, completely absorbed in what he was doing. As she watched, he reached out, took a bottle from the floor, drank.

  “Lawrence,” Helen hissed. He didn’t hear her. “Lawrence!”

  He slowly turned, smiled.

  “Helen! Thank God. I was worried!”

  He was covered in dried blood.

  “Are you injured? Where’s Mrs. Patterson?”

  “I’m fine.” He took another swig. Whiskey dripped down his chin.

  “But you’re drunk,” Helen said.

  Lawrence shrugged.

  Helen stepped deeper into the room, glanced into the corners. She noticed Frank’s shotgun propped against a wall.

  “Where’s Mrs. Patterson? And where’s Frank?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  “Whose blood is that? All over you?”

  Lawrence lifted his hands, turned them over. “Whoa,” he said, as if noticing the blood for the first time.

  A collection of Alice’s tools were on the floor beside his knee.

  “What are you doing?” Helen asked.

  “Making jewelry.” He held up a partially constructed necklace. A string with pink blobs.

  Helen shook her head in exasperation. Lawrence was three sheets to the wind. Perhaps in shock. Most definitely out of it.

  She left him there, moved silently down the hall to the master bedroom. She paused outside the closed door, unsure of what she would find. Had Mrs. Patterson laid low this entire time? Was she just biding her time, waiting to see who made it back, her or Teddy?

  She threw open the bedroom door.

  As before, the room was lit by a collection of candles. Tall white tapers, beeswax cones, thick squat ones that smelled of cinnamon and pine needles. Pools of warm yellow light contrasted with deeply shadowed nooks and crannies.

  Frank lay on the four-poster brass bed, face up.

  Mrs. Patterson sat in a winged chair placed in the left corner.

  Only, that wasn’t right. It took several moments for Helen to make sense of what she was seeing.

  The body in the chair was dressed in Frank’s clothes. Dark pants, boots, a Dickies jacket. But with Mrs. Patterson’s face. Red hair piled into a messy bun, crimson lips, dark eye makeup.

  The one on the bed was dressed in pants and a sweater, and featured Mrs. Patterson’s exaggerated curves, rounded hips, large breasts. But Frank’s head stared up at the c
eiling from atop the neck. Well, it looked like Frank, but with some facial features excised. A jigsaw puzzle missing a piece or two.

  Helen felt her gorge rise. She backed away. Bumped into Lawrence standing in the doorway.

  “My latest project,” he said.

  “You?”

  Lawrence nodded. “Didn’t have much time. Or my equipment.” He showed her the kitchen knife he’d used to kill Yates. “I improvised.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lawrence.”

  “You don’t like it.”

  She raised the revolver. “Drop the knife.”

  “Okay.” He opened his fingers. The knife fell to the floor.

  “Back up.”

  “Helen?”

  “Back up!”

  Lawrence held up his hands, retreated into the hall. “Please don’t shout.”

  Helen stepped out of the bedroom, closed the door behind her. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Are you okay, Helen?”

  “Not really, Lawrence. I don’t think you’re okay, either.”

  Lawrence laughed softly.

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “I’m placing you under arrest. You’re coming with me to Donnersville.”

  “I’d really rather not.” He was carrying the bottle of whiskey. He sipped, wiped his mouth.

  “I’m not giving you a choice,” Helen said.

  “Well, hear me out first.”

  Helen wondered where she might find a pair of handcuffs. Hers were in the charred ruins of the jail.

  “Obviously, I have some serious psychological issues.” He made a wry face. “Impulses. Compulsions. I’m not like other people, normal people. I never was.”

  “Stop talking,” Helen said. “Put your hands on top of your head.”

  “It was little things at first. Bugs, insects, what have you. Those tiny lizards you find under rocks in the back yard. You know, just like any other kid. When I was nine or ten I had a succession of hamsters and mice. My parents couldn’t figure out why they kept dying. Finally they stopped buying them for me. After that it was stray cats. A neighborhood dog. As I grew older, I craved bigger projects. I knew it was wrong. I just couldn’t … stop.”