by Brian Hodge
“Whelp,” the Sheriff began, “I’m thinkin’ this is the work of hunters. Prolly got a deer or some such. I’m gonna get some people out here anyway just to make sure.” He took out a cell phone and speed dialed.
“Hunters?” I said. “Why would hunters take the time to build—”
“Well, son, this looks like a prefab job to me. Prolly built it someplace else and set it down here to have a convenient place to gut and dress the kill. Lots of blood on the grass here too, see it?” He went on to explain that to get that much blood everywhere you’d have to either gut something, or chop it up, limb from limb. I went back into the house to be with my wife and kids.
None of the police people would tell us what they were finding, or supposing, even after three more hours of doing their thing. Finally I told Dad I was going out there to see what was going on and when they were going to get the hell off our property.
I walked out into the woods with a flashlight, hoping the cops would realize it was me and not shoot or something. After a few minutes, I could see the red and blue flashing lights. The sun was well into setting by that point, and they’d set up a big spotlight that lit up the woods. They’d also put up that yellow police tape in the trees all over. It looked like they’d marked some spots on the ground, too.
The sound of a distant, clunky engine caught my ear. Another car in the distance was driving through the trees, with no flashing lights. You could drive a car into the woods for a while, until the trees got too thick. I don’t think Dad ever drove his car in here when we were growing up, so neither did I. The headlights turned off from pretty far away, then back on. I looked around to see if anyone was noticing this. Incredibly, all the police people seemed to be preoccupied with the measuring, writing, sample taking … all the other things they did to solve crimes. The mystery car made a three-point turn and knocked into a small tree before driving away.
I wanted to be sick. The fake, yellow lights in the woods made it abundantly clear. The license plate was plain as day. I might have even cried when I saw it: Boba Fett, it said. Mikey was so happy the day he got that vanity plate. He was so proud to be the first guy in Michigan to have thought of it. He’d had that same damn plate for years and years, even when he had to keep renewing it. He didn’t care; he wanted it that much.
He was my best friend for the whole beginning of my life. I didn’t know what he’d done. What could I tell the cops? It didn’t change anything, legally. I didn’t have any idea of what he’d done, or if he’d even done anything. Maybe it was just a coincidence, him driving up here. It was the weekend, after all.
Instead of getting input from Dad or my wife, instead of doing anything helpful at all … I went back into the house. I sat there with my wife and daughters and pretended not to know that Mikey used this place like a second home. Mikey, who the more I thought about him, the crazier he seemed. His wife, dying so stupidly and under such bizarre circumstances? He was always so messed up about women, about everything, really. He was just such a—weirdo. I didn’t want to rat out a buddy. What kind of friend turns his buddy over to the cops, especially when he doesn’t really know anything? I didn’t. I didn’t KNOW anything.
Chapter Fifty-Six
(Mikey)
An Onion in the Ointment
Fuck! How did this happen? Cops everywhere. It didn’t make any sense. My Angel’s playhouse was out in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Pigs all over it! Nobody was even supposed to be up there. I just didn’t get it. It wasn’t fair. What the hell was I supposed to do now?
“Hi!” I said to her, trying to sound cheerful. She was waking up from the chloroform. “You hungry? We can go get a cheeseburger if you want.” She was so damn pretty, looking at me with these big, searching eyes. Her head shook—not hungry, I guess. Too bad for her; I was hungry and determined to get a burger.
I had to think this through rationally. I had a gun in the glove box, all loaded and ready to go. That was just in case. I finally had my Angel. Finally. And nowhere to take her. It was another of life’s cruel jokes at my expense. When was life gonna give me a goddamn break?
We pulled into the drive-thru and she started looking all around, probably for someone to help her escape.
“Now, Angel,” I told her in the sweetest voice I had. “You don’t want to do anything stupid here, nothing to call attention to us. I have a gun in the glove box. I don’t want to use it, but I will if you make me. Okay?” She nodded. I gave the bag of burgers and stuff to my Angel so she could check it. These places leave stuff out all the time.
“They didn’t give us any ketchup,” she said, looking up sweetly at me. I tended to put mustard on my fries, or else I just had them plain. But of course, if my Angel wanted ketchup, then I wanted to get it for her.
I was only a minute or two getting ketchup. I kept an eye on the car to make sure she wasn’t driving it away. It was a stick shift. Surely a girl of my Angel’s age would have no idea how to drive standard.
She was sitting all quiet with the blanket still pulled all around her. She looked so beautiful. Once we got back on the expressway, I told her she could pull her hands out from under the blanket to eat. I wasn’t really looking at her, which was a drag. She pushed the blanket off herself. My beautiful Angel was pointing my gun right at me.
“Let me out right now.” Her little hands were shaking. It was really very cute, except that she wanted me dead. I kept on driving. After all, what’s she gonna do? Shoot me? “I mean it!” She was yelling.
“Angel, if you shoot me we’ll both crash and die. Is that what you want? The car can’t drive itself, you know.” I sped up, just a little. She needed to know I was serious. Tears were falling down her face. She was shaking so bad it made me feel sad to look at her. So pretty and scared … she was turning this into something ugly.
As I was trying to drive us to someplace nice, the treacherous Angel squeezed her little fingers on the trigger. Nothing happened, of course. But she tried. She shook the gun a little, hit it on the side and tried to fire again. If it weren’t for my Angel knowing absolutely nothing of guns, I’d have been murdered right then and there. She didn’t know she had to cock it. Or else I would be dead. It was so scary.
I never should have trusted her. I don’t know why I did. She was so pretty and young and clever and talented … I knew she was all those things, but I didn’t know she had hate and murder in her heart. How could I know that? Her treachery broke my insides. I felt them shredding apart as I drove down the expressway. Then she did it.
The Red is coming. No, not her. She’s good … she has to be. But she isn’t. The Red is growing.
“Bitch.” My arm is outstretched. I must have hit her because she’s holding her face and crying. Her handcuffed hands are above the window. People could see—so I pull her hands down and she just starts screaming. Long, loud screams. I’ve got to get us off the road before someone hears her.
There’s the rest stop up ahead. As I pull in I realize this is where I took my very first girl. The freckle-faced redhead named … Maggie? Marcy? Something like that. She had beautiful legs and a cute smile. I visited her sometimes until she got found.
“You gotta be quiet now,” I tell Angel with my hand over her mouth. “If you don’t want anything bad to happen, all you have to do is stay quiet.” She’s looking all around. But there’s no one. No one anywhere.
“Am I going to die?” She looks up at me, all teary-eyed and sad. I put my finger over her lips, telling her kindly to shut up. I lead her over to the soda machines where I buy us both a Coke. She wants a Diet Coke, but I tell her that’s silly. She looks perfect just how she is. Elise says a lot of young girls hate their bodies and starve themselves. Sad.
She’s handcuffed and sitting on my lap. I want to kiss her so bad. She’s squirming away from me, telling me “no” in a sweet, quiet little voice, not her loud, screamy one. My Angel’s just so pretty and sweet. I touch her and kiss her; after a while she relaxes enough not to fight me.
She’s just sort of staring into space as we lay on the grass together.
We stay there making love for a long time, hours probably. The sun is coming up and I hold my beautiful Angel naked in my arms. Outside in front of God and everyone. I’ve never felt so happy. I know it won’t last. Nothing ever lasts like it should.
I sit up and rub my eyes, just in time to see one of those disgusting suburban minivans pull up. We’re far back in the woods enough, though, that they’ll never see us.
We hear a car door slam and Angel jumps up from the grass. She lets out this shrill, awful scream. I grab her by the ankle, just barely catching her. She falls down.
“Shut up!” I hiss at her. My hand covers her mouth, but that isn’t shutting her up. Those people will totally hear us if I don’t do something. They’ll call someone or they’ll come back here … I just want to make her shut up. So I hit her. I don’t want to. She won’t shut up no matter how many times I tell her to—she just won’t listen. The Red is back—all of a sudden. She did it. She wanted to weaken me. I have to hit her and hit her and keep hitting her. Then she’s not screaming or moving or anything at all.
“Why couldn’t you just be nice?” I ask her, holding her little face in my hand. Even bloody, she’s such a lovely young girl. I hold her in my arms, crying a little at the terrible fate she’s brought on herself. Such a tragedy. A goddamn shame is what it is.
I fell asleep beside her on the grass. I just wanted to hold her. I didn’t wake up until the cop was nudging me. He poked at me with his cop stick, the way a kid would poke a dead body.
“You alright there, kids?” He said like it was some kind of joke. I rolled over to look at the cop, revealing the dead, naked body of my Angel. She looked so used up and sad. The cop must have thought so too. He stood there staring at us for what seemed like a very long time. I’m pretty sure he brushed away tears of his own.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
(Mama)
So Much Accusin’
You couldn’t imagine the things people were saying about my little boy. Splashing his face all over the news! Calling him a murderer and a sex fiend and every other crazy thing. I couldn’t even turn on the television without my Michael’s face staring back at me, with a bunch of strangers sayin’ he’d done dreadful, terrible things. Not a single one of ‘em knew what they were talking about. People on television never did. That’s why I never watched it. But when a lady from the church called up and said to turn it on right away, what else could I do? There he was—my only son—being talked about like a common, godless sodomite.
My little Pooter came over to help me every single time I called him. He was a very obedient boy. Always had been. He got into his share of trouble as a boy, but who didn’t? Even that heathen family he kept time with used to tell me they’d never seen a more well-mannered, respectful boy as my little Pooter.
I was glad we’d kept him away from those county schools. Didn’t want him to have anything to do with idolater children, with their sloth and revelry. Nosy people used to get involved, though, making trouble for us when we were just trying to live right. Michael went to the Boy Scouts after a time. I didn’t like it one bit. They’re supposed to be a good Christian group, but I’ve been hearing that they let heathens in there now. I don’t think there’s any place left on God’s earth that’s free of heathens nowadays. How’s anyone supposed to keep their children on the right path? And that boy they called scoutmaster looked like a prissy type of boy to me.
My oldest, a girl, she went bad. There was no denying it. But my boy turned out so good. Even though he was a busboy, even though he kept time with those whores, he was still a good, god-fearing boy. I just couldn’t see how anyone could accuse him of such sins. Those policemen treated him so unfairly. They didn’t have any proof.
I’m the first to admit my Pooter has made some mistakes. He married that dot-head who was already spoiled—had two children by a man who died. Married her and did his best to raise up her two young heathen girls. Those girls fought the love of Jesus with everything they had. Worshipping elephants and twelve-armed women and who knows what else? Almost didn’t see the point in trying to save them. But Jesus says we’re to try and save every single person we meet, even elephant worshippers. I told my Pooter not to trust those people. Sometimes men just won’t listen to their mamas, and it never goes well for ‘em.
Worst part is, when a boy gets accused of something terrible, the first thing they do is blame the mother. It’s just not right. People would think abominable things about me if they thought I raised up a killer. They’d probably say I beat him, or that I should have let him go to that heathen school and pledge his allegiance to a flag instead of to our Lord.
Point was, I wasn’t to blame for anything my Pooter did. I did right by him. Nobody nowhere can say I didn’t. There were newsmen and cameras all over town trying to get people to say bad things about my boy. They’d come by my house every morning, pounding on the door trying to get me to say I believed he’d hurt those poor, strumpet girls. Other day I took my husband’s old shotgun out and pointed it right at a big bunch of ‘em. Got them off my property in a hurry. Wasn’t even loaded.
Michael’s father, he was the one for the beatin’s. I used to tell him not to leave marks on the boy, especially once he started going on campouts with those Boy Scouts and all that there. Boys shower all together in a group at those things. It’s no wonder so many child molesters get involved with those kinds of people. We couldn’t have our Pooter showering with other boys all bruised up and covered in welts. People would talk. That leather belt used to leave the most godawful welts on that boy. With neighbors butting into our business as it was … well, we just didn’t think it was anyone else’s business what went on in our family. Every Christian knows a man rules the house as a lord rules his land. Wasn’t anything I could do for Michael if his father felt he needed a whoopin’. Seemed like my Pooter was always needing discipline for one thing or another.
I remembered the day Michael came up outta the woods to tell me his Daddy had been shot. All red and shaking, he was. We called the law to come out, just like you’re supposed to. Michael couldn’t say where the bullet came from, couldn’t even tell our sheriff where he’d been standing at the time. Said he didn’t remember. They say people go into shock when they bear witness to something terrible. It wasn’t bad enough that he’d lost his Daddy; they had to ask him question after question until he started to cry. My little boy never could hold up under pressure. It was obvious my Pooter didn’t know a damn thing, but they kept at him for days. Finally I told them I’d get a lawyer, just like Pastor Simms said I should.
After all that was done with, the church wanted Pooter to come in for spiritual counseling. Pastor Simms said boys of Michael’s age were very attached to their fathers. They could grow up gay, or worse, if you didn’t get them the help they needed. Turned out my brother Stanley, the confirmed bachelor, was very interested in spending time with Pooter. He wasn’t as manly as my husband, but he’d be a good role model all the same.
In the end, Pooter didn’t turn out queer. So I must have done something right. But I left him vulnerable. Those women enticed him, because I didn’t teach him well enough how treacherous and sinful women can be. It was woman who brought God’s displeasure on the earth; her sin doomed mankind. How was my boy supposed to stand strong against that kind of evil? They used their wiles on him. A boy like my Pooter is gonna be susceptible to that kind of thing. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know any better. Whatever happened to Pooter, I wanted it known that his mama’d raised him up right.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
(Mikey)
Sick with the Trouble
They took my fingerprints and wouldn’t let me go home to take a shower or anything. They made me sit in a dark, crappy-looking room for hours, with nothing but diet soda. It was making my stomach sick. I kept telling them I wanted a smoke, even though I don’t smoke as a rule. I felt like shit and jus
t wanted this to end.
I also kept telling them I wanted to talk to Mama. They laughed the first time I said that, but I knew she’d tell me the right thing to do. They wouldn’t let me call her. It wasn’t fair. I always thought you got to make one phone call when you got arrested. They said I had the right to an attorney, but I didn’t want to decide either way without Mama. They told me if I didn’t do anything bad, why did I want an attorney? Maybe getting a lawyer would make me look guilty. I just didn’t know.
Later they said they had a witness against me, and that I should go be in a lineup. They said if the witness couldn’t identify me, I could go. I should have told them I wanted a lawyer then. On TV all the criminals ask for a lawyer; they demand it. But the innocent guys try to talk their way out of it, to prove their innocence. I needed to convince them that I didn’t do anything bad.
That thing with my Angel was only an accident. A terrible accident. I didn’t want to hit her; she just shouldn’t have screamed like that. She was trying to get me caught, and in the end she DID get me caught. So that was sort of a built-in defense for me right there. They only got me because of her. I couldn’t be going to prison for an accident I didn’t even cause.
I got to talk to the other guys in the lineup before we went in. Two of them were cops, but they were really nice to me. Most of the other cops I talked to here were mean. I won’t ever understand it. Some folks did a job every day that made them be mean to people they didn’t even know. How could they stand being so evil? I could never do it. I’d have to quit.
One of the guys was a secretary, which was pretty weird. Probably queer. And the other guy was a janitor. I did that kind of work for a while, so I knew just how he felt. People talking down to you, mopping up their piss in the johns like some kind of fucking peasant.