Blood Ties

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Your daddy’s in the hospital,” she said. She started the engine, sat back, and bit back tears. “He was in an accident. And he’s hurt.”

  “Is he going to die?” Ever since making his very bad ash, the boy had worried that his father might die.

  “No!”

  His mother took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “He’s not going to die. All right? He’s not going to die. Don’t you worry. Everything will be all right.”

  She wiped her face. “I’m sorry you have to see Mommy cry. But don’t you worry. Everything will be all right.”

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes?” She brought the gear shift down, and they slowly drove out of the school parking lot.

  “Are we going to see Daddy now.?”

  She sobbed again. “No, son. It wouldn’t be a good idea for you to see him just yet.”

  They passed the gasoline service station with the big signs he tried to read out loud every day she took him to school.

  “You have to be brave for your mommy,” she said. “She needs you to be a little man for her.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “I have to spend a lot of time at the hospital.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “And I won’t be able to have you at home. Mommy doesn’t want to leave you, but right now she doesn’t have a choice.”

  "Yes, Mommy.” He thought over what she had told him. “If I can't see Daddy right now, where are you taking me?”

  “To see a friend.” Her voice was high and cheerful, like the way she told him that the doctor was doing what was best and that needles only hurt for a bit.

  A friend? All of his friends were in the kindergarten class. He didn’t understand.

  “Remember that nice lady who took care of you this summer when your daddy and I vent on our short little trip? She is so happy that she is seeing you again.”

  She leaned over and patted his knee. “Don’t worry, it will only be for a short time. And remember, she’s very nice. She loves you like I do.”

  The boy grew rigid and stared silently at the dashboard until they stopped in front of that house and the old lady with rose-scented perfume reached in and pulled him out.

  The Watcher sat on a bench outside the hospital. He kept his head down and his baseball cap in place. The bench was shaded by trees, but he didn’t want to risk the slightest chance that Kelsie might see him from the hospital window.

  He hated her. He loved her, and he hated her.

  She was his. She shouldn’t be visiting the FBI pig in his room. Not anywhere. But since getting her driver’s license a few days earlier, she had made the trip into Kalispell every afternoon to sit beside his bed.

  The Watcher wanted to go up there at night and kill him. He knew he could. He’d walked by on three different afternoons, pretending to visit someone down the hall, and had seen him hooked

  up to tubes, helpless. Aside from spending time with some old Indian who came by every day, he was just waiting to take Kelsie’s time and attention.

  Not love, he told himself. He wasn’t taking Kelsie’s love. She was just visiting him because she felt guilty.

  Still, the Watcher wished he could go in the hospital room and kill the pig slowly. What misfortune that Nick’s rifle had been loaded with a hard-point bullet that passed straight through the man, not even nicking a lung. The Watcher badly wanted to finish what the bullet had begun, but if he did, then they would know that they had blamed the wrong person by thinking it was Nick Buffalo who had been shooting from the cabin and who had died in the fire.

  After dental records had confirmed the blackened body was Nick Buffalo’s, and after the twisted and burned rifle found beside the body had been identified as Nick Buffalo’s, the sheriff had announced finding a confession and suicide note in Nick’s mobile home, with confirmed analysis that the handwriting did indeed belong to Nick. The newspapers, radio, and television had been full of the story, speculating endlessly about the significance of an eagle-feather headdress left in plain sight on Nick Buffalo’s bed. Everyone believed Nick had killed Doris Samson, shot Clay Garner, then committed suicide during a shootout with James McNeill. Only the Watcher knew different; only the Watcher knew what the feather headdress meant. He would have liked to keep it, for leaving a feather as a calling card somehow gave him comfort, but the Watcher also knew if he began with the feathers ever again with anyone but Kelsie, it might raise questions about how Nick Buffalo had died. He had, however, plucked a handful of feathers from the headdress, and he carried one with him now.

  The Watcher’s plan had worked to perfection. Not a single person in existence knew the Watcher still lived to watch and wait. He could hunt women to give him the power of life and death that he craved, and if he did it carefully, no one would ever know it was him.

  Which was why he stared at the hospital with anger and wrestled with himself over a difficult decision. He had the note in his pocket – he had written it earlier that day. Should he deliver it or not?

  First he had to decide if Kelsie would betray him again. If she did tell someone about the note, they would know the guilty man had not died in the fire; all of the Watcher’s fine work to put the blame on Nick would be thrown away.

  Finally, he decided Kelsie would not tell anyone about the note. It would scare her too badly, as if he had risen from the ashes to return to her.

  Decision made, the Watcher stood and began to walk toward the hospital parking lot where she had left the truck. 1n the few minutes it took to reach the truck, he knew he had fooled himself. It wasn’t only because he was angry that she was giving attention to the FBI pig. By the anticipation causing his belly to tingle on his approach to the truck, the Watcher knew he missed having power over Kelsie. Telling her to stay away from the hospital was simply an excuse to prove he still had power. If it hadn’t been the FBI pig, he would have found another reason to let her, and only her, know he was still watching and waiting.

  He reached the truck and opened the driver’s door. She hadn’t locked it. That was another sign his power had slipped. Soon she would know her Watcher still loved her. She would begin locking doors and looking over her shoulder, and he would know his power over her was complete.

  The Watcher got into the pickup and made a charade of searching his shirt pockets for keys, as if the truck was his and he was getting ready to drive away. Then he slapped his head, as if he suddenly remembered where the keys were. He stepped out of the truck and slammed the door shut, the picture of someone angry at his own stupidity.

  But the Watcher was far from angry. Tucked into her ashtray – sticking out so she could not miss it – was an eagle feather. And a folded note.

  It was a good note. He looked forward to watching her at her window tonight. And although he would be on guard for another trap, he was certain it was such a good note that there would be no trap set for him this time. Or any other time after that.

  PART TWO

  Kalispell

  June, 1996

  Day 1

  8:34 a.m.

  In the sunlight on the second floor of the house, the Watcher surveyed the result of years of effort and called it good. He had worked the entire night through to make his self-imposed deadline, but he was not fatigued. He’d trained himself to need little sleep.

  There was no one to hear him as his self-congratulatory words echoed off bare walls. That didn’t bother the Watcher, of course. He enjoyed solitude. He’d spent weekends and occasional vacation time building his project, and every hour of work had been in solitude. Over the years, not a single person had been invited inside the house to witness the steady progression of construction. No one could have any knowledge of the project; he could not take that risk.

  Because he’d been unable to hire skilled workmen, the Watcher had been forced to learn from handyman books and from his mistakes. He’d taught himself to measure correctly. He’d learned how to brace two-by-fours. He’d even mastered electrical wiring. He had drywal
led, painted, and carpeted. Everything, including the installation of video cameras, he had done himself.

  All told, the work itself had been extremely satisfying – almost therapeutic. Dozens of times over the previous years, he had felt the urge to kill come upon him. Practicality, not revulsion, had dictated he fight the urge, but there had been some exceptions. If too many were killed, however, it increased the chances that he would be discovered. Also, if he took time away from the project to seek his prey, the project’s completion would be delayed. He would have to wait that much longer before he could make Kelsie completely his.

  Time and again, this project had helped to slake his urge. By taking hammer in hand, pinching nails between his lips and becoming a carpenter, he occupied his mind and hands. He was not only building a structure of walls within walls, he was building a dream.

  And the dream was finally ready.

  10:12 a.m.

  Clay sat in the middle row of church, frustrated.

  First of all, there was the frustration he endured weekly at this church, his attendance a ritual because Kelsie had insisted upon it from the first day of their marriage. While Clay knew Kelsie was worth it, Clay felt too many of the people around – fidgeting and coughing and discreetly checking out hat and dress styles – were content to make sure God remained small enough to fit into this church building.

  The lack of joy in this church also frustrated Clay. The man behind the pulpit was, by occupation, an avowed Christian. And Christians proclaimed a God of love had given them a lease on eternal life. Now, if a person really believed that, wasn’t it the greatest news in the world? That dying didn’t matter because you were just passing through a curtain to perfection on the other side? If a person really believed, wouldn’t that person find some joy in the knowledge of faith, especially one who was self-appointed to preach that news? So why did this dried-out prune drone judgment from the pulpit the way he did every week?

  Every week, Clay came to the same conclusion. Any nonbelieving person sitting in the pews using any degree of logic would have a reasonable right to doubt a message conveyed in such contrast to it contents. As near as Clay could tell, the best reason to join this congregation was because it was one of Kalispell’s oldest and most respected social clubs.

  On the other hand, if his old Indian friend George Samson ever spoke from the pulpit – a laughable idea because tolerance was another practice merely preached in this church – there’d be joy in George’s voice as he passed along his message. He wouldn’t be a dried-out prune. And George was pushing, what, seventy by now?

  Clay wished his frustration ended there, with amusing day-dreams of George Samson shaking this congregation with some hard-edged truths and questions about the great mystery of God.

  Instead, Clay’s mind kept returning to the larger source of his morning’s frustration, sitting to his left, still and attentive to the sermon, hands resting in her lap. She was perfumed, coiffed perfectly, filling perfectly a perfectly pressed tan dress. With one silk stocking knee crossect over a silk stocking thigh, there was just enough leg showing to distract him. She was utterly beautiful – utterly distant.

  How he loved Kelsie! Being with someone you loved, in itself, was good, very good. But to be with someone and be able to share memories added to the good. And to be with someone with the security of looking forward to more memories made it even better. He had found all of this in Kelsie.

  How he loved her. How he loved their memories. He grinned every time he thought of the shock of mutual recognition on their first meeting upon his return to the valley after retirement from the FBI – she was the lawyer who had handled his real-estate deal, and she had looked up from her desk in disbelief at the sound of his familiar drawl after nearly seventeen years of separate lives. Then began six months of courtship, with her the delightful and subtle aggressor. The wedding had taken place here in this church. Then the honeymoon followed, where each morning he’d awaken expecting to find it a dream that a woman this smart and beautiful would love him in return.

  A surge of affection hit him as he thought back over their six-year marriage. Sure, the last few months had been tough, but he hadn’t helped, retreating into the silence of stubborn pride in answer to her growing silences. He reminded himself that she had it tough, running her career, doing her best with Taylor. No wonder she sometimes retreated into herself.

  Today, after church, he’d pack a picnic basket. He’d arrange for someone to take care of Taylor for the afternoon and offer to take Kelsie on a romantic retreat. He’d take the first step back to her and hope that love would do the rest.

  Clay reached over and took her hand. It was the first physical

  contact they’d had in a week.

  She flinched. It pained him.

  He squeezed her hand. It remained limp and unresponsive.

  He maintained his grip, waited a full five count, hoping she’d understand how much it hurt to have such a small action rejected when he had memories of so much more. There was no return squeeze of affection. Slowly, he dropped her hand back in her lap.

  Taylor tugged on the arm of Clay’s suit jacket from the other side. Clay swallowed his sadness and anger and turned his attention to their five-year-old son. Taylor grinned and pointed down beneath his swinging feet at a small black beetle crossing the shiny tiles of the floor. Clay grinned and grabbed Taylor’s hand. Anything to keep the little rascal from jumping down and hollering and laughing as he chased the beetle beneath the pews.

  Taylor, at least, squeezed back.

  * * *

  Clay resolved not to give up. As they drove out of the church parking lot, he suggested the picnic. Kelsie didn’t answer.

  The only sound to break their ride came from the backseat. Taylor was humming on his beloved harmonica. For all the disadvantages that had been placed upon him by the presence of one extra chromosome, he had one natural gift: music. From birth, it had captivated him. As soon as he’d been able to crawl, he had moved to the stereo speakers and hummed with whatever music was playing. Taylor would never understand written musical notes, but he was a natural mimic. The harmonica had been an inspiration from Clay, who understood Taylor’s stubby fingers and comprehension level would limit his dexterity with any other instrument. With the harmonica, however, Taylor could pour out his breath and emotions with amazing rhythm

  Kelsie waited until they were at the ranch to speak. “I think a picnic is a great idea,” she finally replied as they pulled into the ranch yard. She looked away from Clay and out her window at the ranch buildings and corrals to her right. “Why don’t you take Taylor and make an afternoon of it?”

  Clay spun the wheel and parked beside her BMW.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. His tone was light, but he was determined to make the day work. “I meant you and me. We’ll drop Taylor off with Lawson. I’ve been thinking we could use some time to get reacquainted.” He tried his best grin. “I know a great lake where we could skinny-dip.”

  “No,” she said softly.

  Louie Two, their golden Labrador retriever, was running circles around the parked Jeep, barking a welcome. Taylor carefully put his harmonica in his back pocket before pointing at Louie Two with laughter.

  “No? We’re married. I know the fact that we can legally skinny-dip takes a lot of the fun out of it, but...”

  For the first time in weeks, she reached out to Clay. She put her hand on his shoulder and turned toward him. Neither had released their seat belts. As much as Clay wanted to slip loose and embrace her awkwardly across the armrests, he was afraid to move. What if he frightened her away?

  “Clay, you’re breaking my heart,” she said, her hand motionless, her face still.

  “Is it the thought of my untanned body whooping and hollering in cold mountain water?” Even as he tried to make light of her rejection, he knew something was seriously wrong.

  “Please don’t make it more difficult for me,” she said. “I feel like I’m goin
g to fall into a thousand pieces.”

  “Kelsie?” he asked.

  Just then Taylor leaned forward and stuck his head between the seats. Clay was proud Taylor had learned to undo his seat belt and that he had learned to wait until the vehicle was stopped to do it. Usually Clay applauded or hugged him for his feat.

  Clay lifted a hand to tousle Taylor’s hair, but Kelsie interrupted.

  “Not now,” she said to her son. "Play with Louie Two.”

  Disappointment crossed Taylor’s face. Kelsie took her hand off Clay’s shoulder and turned back around the other way to unlock Taylor’s rear door. Louie Two was outside, wagging his tail and panting. Taylor began to hum with happiness and pushed himself into the ranch yard.

  Clay managed not to say what was on his mind. Couldn’t Kelsie behave like a mother instead of a caretaker? This moment, of all moments, though, definitely did not feel like the moment to begin yet another fight that could turn into a cold war lasting for days.

  Taylor heaved the rear door shut then clapped approval for himself and his accomplishment.

  “Take Taylor on a picnic this afternoon,” she said. “It’ll be easier for both of us.”

  “I don’t understand,” Clay said, although the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him maybe he did.

  “It will give me time to pack. I’m leaving you.”

  “Leaving?” Clay took some deep breaths. He’d known things were bad, but this was a baseball bat coming at his head with no warning. “Leaving? Just like that? One day here. The next day gone. No chance for discussion? Isn’t this something two people in a marriage decide upon. Together?”

  “Stay angry. That will help.”