by Jen Wright
He sat at the table writing, stopping periodically to hold his arm and flex his fingers. Jo saw blood soaking through a makeshift bandage wrapped around his arm. She wanted to wrench his arm until he screamed in pain and then take his gun.
She finally broke the silence that had been working thus far to keep her off of his radar. She needed to get a bead on where he was at.
"Don."
When he looked up, his head jerked and his eyes gained focus. Rejoining present-day reality, Jo guessed. He looked at her in silence for a moment and then replied, "What?"
She hadn't planned what she would say to him, so she was winging it. "Is your full name Donald?"
As she said it, he flinched.
"We've been over this. Don't call me Donald."
We've been over this? Does he think I'm someone else? "Sorry, Don. Can I get you some more coffee?"
"Please." He held up his cup momentarily and then resumed writing. Maybe he assumed that this was the typical role women played. She hoped she could pull it off. She got up to serve him coffee and lingered over his shoulder long enough to glance at what he was writing. She could make out "God," "end," "fuck-up," and "mine." Not wanting to linger too long, she eased away.
She doubted how far she could carry the charade of being a doting woman. What if he wanted affection? The thought of trying to cozy up to him was likely to make her gag, which would surely give her away as an imposter.
Jo decided to clean the propane stove. She reflected back on Zoey's comments about her being just shy of obsessive compulsive and knew that on some level she needed to clean something in order to feel in control over what was happening. She found Brillo pads in the sink cabinet and scrubbed away. The stove would at least offer her some stress relief.
Don seemed to relax a bit as she went after the stove. Frank's eyebrows were raised, and Jo believed he was confused as hell. Jo sent him a look that said, Once we get out of here, if you tell anyone about this, I'm going to kill you myself.
Jo noticed that Frank was starting to squirm. She hoped he wasn't thinking about trying something. He could easily set Don off. Jo shook her head "no" toward him. He seemed to settle down and then spoke up, "I need to use the bathroom."
Don got up and took two small steps over to him, pointed the handgun in the direction of a closet-sized bathroom, and said, "Over there."
Jo started thinking about opportunities for escape, or of taking Don down. The two men got to the bathroom, and Don stood in the doorway observing Frank. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to her, but he could be listening. Jo knew from her explorations that all the room contained was a sink with a water jug perched on top and a Porta-Potty.
Jo's gun was still safely tucked inside the now unzipped pocket of her jacket. The main doorway leading up and out was ten feet to the right of the bathroom closet. Don stood between the bathroom opening and the outer door, leaving perhaps seven feet from him to the door. He was too close. Everything was too close.
Jo slipped her hand into her pocket and touched the gun, but Don seemed to sense her watching him and turned toward her again. She looked inside the cooler next to the counter. It was empty, so she pulled it up and cleaned it with bleach. Don escorted Frank back to the dog bed and said, "Sit, you ugly mutt." His rage began to redden his face. "Was it worth it?"
Frank didn't look at him and sat.
"On second thought, get up. I'm going to show you something." He motioned with his gun for Frank to get up. He then pointed it at Jo, "You, too."
As he led them over to the middle of the room, he instructed Jo to move the rug. When she did, a trapdoor became visible. "Open it."
When she pulled open the door, a rush of frigid air hit her. Along with the air came the distinct smell of death. She was looking at what appeared to be a cellar dug deeper under the bunker. Wow, this guy has been planning this and preparing for a long time.
"In," he barked.
Frank descended the stairs, abruptly stopped, and backed up into them. Jo felt a shove from behind, and the butt of Don's gun pressed into her back.
"Keep going." When Frank turned to face Jo, he was ashen. His eyes pleaded. She gave him a look that said, Go, or we're dead. Thankfully, he kept going. It was darker inside, but Jo could still see the ghastly figure in front of her.
Before them knelt a dead man held up by rope so that he appeared to be posed in prayer. His arms and hands were secured palms together, elevated by thin rope tied to the floor joists of the cabin above. His head hung down so that his face wasn't visible.
Jo slowly approached and crouched down so that she could see the face of this corpse. The look on the dead man's face was anything but serene. His mouth was open as if caught in a horrific scream. Blood had oozed out of his eyes, making the whole scene look oddly religious.
The blood drained from Jo's face, and she saw stars. Instinctively, she reached for a wall to steady herself. It was Rick.
She knew on a deep level that this gross scene would be burned into her memory forever. She knew she should look away, but she was transfixed. Rick's skin had sagged, and his eyes were deep sockets. His hair had fallen out in patches.
She shook her head as if to erase the image from her mind. Then her shock turned to rage.
"What the hell is this?" She turned on Don and wanted to pummel him to death. She couldn't ever remember feeling such fury. The only thing stopping her was his gun.
Don didn't answer her right away but hummed to himself and stared off into the distance.
CHAPTER 37
The day he had found this sinner came flooding back. God must have been guiding him. He woke up that morning feeling the strong pull of purpose. Bolstered by his destruction of the shack containing the electronics only weeks before, he believed that he was answering a calling from God — that he was the chosen one not only to bring justice to his small corner of the world but also to rid the world of sinners.
He had been walking out in the woods less than an hour from his bunker when he heard someone shooting. He'd placed several crosses in the woods along the way so that he could find his way back to the bunker. It was winter, post-hunting season, so the shooter had to be a poacher or perhaps someone taking target practice. He knew these woods inside and out because he had spent the better part of a year building his retreat and marking the area around it with his crosses. He had spent every waking second he could spare, when he was away from his wife and his work, out in the woods near Big Noise.
In part, he had picked this spot because his wife loved to hang out at G's, the local café. He was certain she had been seeing someone, and this spot allowed him to stay close, so he could keep tabs on her. Jean knew nothing of his secret bunker. She didn't seem to care what he was doing, and she seemed happy each time he said that he was going away from home.
The shooting stopped, and he listened closely, careful to stay quiet himself as he honed in on his target. He could make out the faint banging of metal on metal. He crept in the direction of the noise. When he was close enough to see what was going on, he hid behind a tree. Checking his rifle, he instinctively sniffed the air. The faint smell of what he thought was cat urine wafted toward him. If this is what drug making smelled like, it was a sure sign that the sinners who did it were headed for hell.
He felt elated at this discovery because he could right another wrong. He felt sure that God had guided him to this place today to help this man repent for his sin. As he approached, he could see the man working on something under a makeshift tarp. The gun that he had been shooting was leaning under a tree, and a dead squirrel lay next to it on the snow. Don crept up slowly, careful not to make a sound until he was close to the gun and within ten feet of the sinner. Don had heard that meth labs were volatile, and he thought he could potentially blow them both up if he wasn't careful. He was willing to give his life for his cause, but he would avoid it if possible. He knew God was watching him, guiding him. Maybe this was the little weasel his wife was seeing. He
would soon enough find out.
He quickly ran up to and grabbed the gun leaning up against the tree and threw it behind him into the woods. After he did that, he leveled his own rifle at the man.
"What the? Hey, easy…" the man said as he raised his hands. "Who are you?"
Don didn't want to give up any advantage, "Who are you?"
"I'm just a guy…hanging out in the woods. Take it easy."
Don fired off a round into a tree to the right of the man, who visibly jumped and began to sweat.
"Who are you? I won't ask again." Don looked at him with a steely resolve.
"Rick Thomas."
"This your meth lab?" Don pointed with his gun toward the burners and containers.
"I know my rights. I want a lawyer!"
"A lawyer won't help you here, Rick. You're a sinner, and I'm going to make you repent."
Rick felt as if his bowels were going to let loose. He had a sinking feeling that he wished this guy was a cop rather than some religious fanatic. Holy shit, what am I in for here? I have to get my gun back or find a way to get away from this guy. Maybe he isn't really dangerous if he's religious. He did take a shot that went right by my head, though.
"What do you want?" Rick said. He was trying not to shake, but he was certain his knees were knocking together. He'd been tweaking on a previous batch of meth for the past several days and hadn't slept.
"You're coming with me, unless you would rather die."
"Where are we going?"
"To your salvation."
Rick's mind was racing, due in part to the meth. He had been getting progressively more paranoid as his use increased over the past year, and this was really straining his ability to stay within reality. He wanted to explode at this crazy man, but somehow he kept his thoughts under control and started walking. He planned to bide his time until he could get away, or overpower this guy. What the hell will happen to me if my meth wears off?
They walked for about an hour before coming to a small, nearly hidden structure built into the ground. As they stood in front of a door that led underground, Don instructed him to "Pray for your soul. I know you've been cheating with my wife."
"Your wife? I don't even know you. I don't know your wife." By now Rick was craving a fix like a starving man craves food. "I need my drugs. I can't function without them. You can't do this." He was beginning not to care about the gun, or what happened to him.
Don wanted to hit him, but he also relished the control he had when he held himself back. He had to believe this was about principles rather than power. Doing the work of God was so satisfying. He thought ahead to the place he had set up in his bunker where he prayed and knew that it was the spot where Rick had to pray for his forgiveness. He needed to teach him how to pray properly before they moved inside.
If I just make this right, Jean will stop running from me, and we will be happy again. She will again be the loving wife that she vowed to be. He knew what he had to do. "Get down on your knees and ask for forgiveness. You have sinned in the eyes of the Lord. You have committed adultery."
"I'll do it if I can have my drugs. I have them here. I have a rig." He dug into the big side pocket of his military-style camouflage pants. Don let him and watched in fascination as Rick cut his meth, heated it up in a spoon until it liquefied, tied up his arm so that his vein was visible, drew the liquid up into a syringe, and injected himself.
"God is your witness. This has destroyed you. Kneel before him in humility for your sins."
Rick no longer cared about anything except the sweet ecstasy of getting high. In reality, it wasn't so much a high anymore as it was getting back to being able to function. When he didn't have ready access to meth, he took prescription meds and speed to get through.
He knelt and thought about his life. When he was high, his mind raced, and he felt invincible. He felt as if he had everything together. Like he was a train moving fast down a track that no one could stop. That train had been gaining speed in the last year, and when he didn't have his drugs, he often felt like he was coming off the tracks. It would all work for him if he could just keep things going. He had quit his job as a mason and cooked methamphetamine full time. He rationalized that he could make more money, plus he didn't have to spend money on his habit.
His PO friend Jo wouldn't approve, but she didn't really understand what it was like. No one did. It didn't help to have friends if it meant having to live without meth. Even meeting Katie hadn't made him want to quit. She'd have to accept him the way he was, and he'd help her out if she didn't ask him to change too much. They'd both had hard lives, so maybe she could understand what made him tick.
He would do what this crazy fucker wanted him to do, and then he'd be on his way. He knelt for what seemed like an hour but in reality was only a couple of minutes. Then Don said, "Good, now get up. We're going inside to pray."
Don directed Rick down into a stone structure built right into the ground. Once inside, he pulled a rug away from the floor, revealing a trapdoor. They descended into a subbasement dug into the earth. Don shone a flashlight ahead of them and directed Rick to "Kneel and pray here." Rick was surrounded by fieldstone and mortar in this tiny little basement.
"If I pray, then I get to go?"
"I'll help you go myself," Don said to him. "Shoot your sin again before God and seek forgiveness."
Rick had never injected himself this close together and didn't quite know what effect it would have, but he was willing to do what it took to keep his train on the track. He removed his kit, cutting the meth, and felt the gun to his head, "Do it now."
Again he hesitated, unsure about what using this much methamphetamine would do to him, but he shot up before kneeling on the cold earthen floor. He put his hands together in prayer, collapsed, and died quietly of an overdose. His hemorrhaging brain caused blood to drip dramatically out of both his eyes.
Don saw the blood, knew that it was a sign of God's will, gathered up the kit, placed it back inside Rick's pocket, and then tied his hands together. He rigged up a rope system that would hold Rick in a kneeling prayer position indefinitely. Before closing the basement door, Don took a last satisfied look at the sinner he had brought to salvation and then left him in this cold, dark, secret place.
CHAPTER 38
Don smiled ever so slightly as he came back to the present. "He was a sinner, and he's repenting, God have mercy on his soul." Don was almost singing in a monotone voice like the ones Jo remembered priests using during Catholic mass. "He will have mercy on your soul. Kneel and pray to God."
He pointed the gun at Jo, who didn't move. Somehow she knew she needed to keep him talking. "Why does God need to have mercy on my soul?" Her knees felt weak, and the room was closing in, but she struggled to stay focused. The stench of rotting flesh helped her to stay in touch with her anger. She thought about the young man she had thought of more as a son than a former client.
Don again resumed in his monotone voice, "You have sinned in the eyes of the Lord. You have committed adultery. God have mercy on your soul." Frank was leaning against the wall and hugging himself. He flinched as Don spoke up again.
"They must be preserved so that their prayers are pure. We will cleanse the sins of the world."
Jo felt a keen desire to see this man dead. After what he had done to Rick, he didn't deserve to go on breathing. She could easily pull out the gun and end his days right here.
This must be how murderers feel, she thought. But what would Zoey think if I killed this sorry lunatic?
Jo could almost hear Zoey's response in her head: "You're coping with reality far better than he is. He's not responsible for his actions, but you are."
Jo felt suddenly ill, but the thought of Zoey had given her an inspiration. She pushed on. "Thou shalt not kill. You are the sinner; now give me the gun."
Don seemed shocked at her reply.
She found it hard not to lunge at him and pound him into a pulp. She was getting fuel from the anger and disg
ust at what she was experiencing. He seemed to be spacing out, so she spoke up again.
"Don, listen to me. This is wrong. God doesn't want you to do this for Him. Sinners will face God in their own time. Killing is a sin." She hadn't thought about the wisdom of going at him with this tact, but she was in survival mode.
"You don't know how it is. I am the chosen one." Don pointed to his chest with his good hand. His face was red with anger.
"You aren't stupid, Don. I see how you put this whole cabin together. That took some smarts. Take time to think this through."
Pausing for a moment, Don suddenly said,"Upstairs, now!" Neither of his hostages hesitated. They bounded up and out of the cryptlike basement.