But tonight was about dinner and friends. He no longer wanted to think about the grisly events of the past two days, wishing only to enjoy the evening free from worry. Randall turned on the radio, hoping that a little music might help clear his head. Instead the thoughts kept tumbling through his head. Who could have murdered Virginia Shore? Why dump her body in Saltar’s Point? Could Darrow be capable of murder? And why on earth would new tires be on that piece of crap van? After all that was like giving a monkey a credit card, it just didn’t make any God damn sense.
He pulled the Cherokee onto the gravel drive that made its way up to Cletus’ house. The tires flipped the gravel up into the wheel wells in a cacophony of plinks. The front porch light was on, giving the small two-bedroom cottage an inviting look. Suddenly the screen door burst open and Aiden came bounding out the door and down the steps.
“Randall’s here! Randall’s here!”
He opened the door of the Cherokee just in time to sweep Aiden off his feet and hoist him onto his shoulders.
“Hey champ. What have you been up to?”
Aiden looked down at him and covered Randall’s eyes, one of his favorite games. “Nothin’.”
“Nothin’ huh? That’s hard to believe. Where’s your mom?”
“She’s inside.”
“No, I mean where’s your mom at? I can’t see!”
Randall held his arms out in front of him like a blind man without a cane feeling his way around and making a stumbling theatrical performance out of it, pretending to loose his balance several times before righting himself. Aiden enjoyed the ride and giggled the entire time. At last Randall found the handrail and scaled the steps two at a time.
“Looks like you made it.” Ellie met them at the front door.
“Yeah I would have gotten here sooner but I got this monkey on my head that just won’t go away.” He tickled Aiden’s ribs causing a flurry of laughing kicks before he hoisted him off his shoulders and set him on the ground. “Why don’t you go find your grandpa while I say hello to your mother?” He slapped him on the butt for emphasis. Aiden took off into the house.
Ellie gave him that seductive look that she was so good at, staring him in the eyes while seeming to look down to the ground at the same time. She was wearing jeans, and a low cut blouse, exposing just enough cleavage to warrant attention but not enough to cross the delicate threshold of good taste.
“Officer.” Her voice was sultry. “I do believe I’ve been a bad bad girl.” She placed one arm up along the doorjamb, tracing the molding with her fingers.
“Christ Ellie, how much have you had to drink?”
“You sure know how to spoil a girl’s mood.” Ellie flashed him a smile and snapped the dishtowel in her hand with a playful flip. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him, wrapping his arms around the small of her back and interlocking his hands. His head bent down placing his face inches away from her own. Ellie could feel the soft press of his breath against her lips as he whispered to her.
“What did you want me to do Ellie, slap the cuffs on you and haul you off to jail?”
“Well a girl can always dream, can’t she?” Ellie could play this game too. She pressed her lips against his, hard enough to let him know what she was thinking. “That’s a little taste of dessert, but first you have to eat all of your supper.”
“No problem ma’am, I am one hungry hombre.”
Ellie laughed and pulled away, grabbing his hand and dragging him through the front door.
Dinner was piping hot. Corned beef and cabbage with russet potatoes cooked to perfection in a well used crock-pot. It had been Ellie’s grandmother’s and the sight of the orange clayware brought back powerful memories, flooding Ellie’s mind with images of her nana. She was a kindly woman, but her personality was equipped with a steel will and an iron fist to back it up. She usually wore her long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, refusing to twist it into a predictable bun like other women her age. She had made countless family dinners in the old crock-pot, Ellie only hoped that her cooking was half as good. They ate in relative silence, a sign that perhaps her cooking wasn’t so bad after all. Cletus stuffed a potato in his mouth gnashing it up with his molars and not doing a good enough job of it before he attempted to speak.
“Word about town is you boys are investigating a murder right here in Saltar’s Point.”
Randall about choked on his cabbage. “Who the hell did you hear that from?”
“Shoot, Dale Wharton told me down at the post office. Everyone in town’s been flapping about it all day long. You got the Shell station all taped up, people are bound to start askin’ questions, and you know Walter ain’t never told a lie in his life but he ain’t ever kept a secret either.” He stuffed another oversized potato in his mouth and somehow managed to work some words around it. “That’s a bad combination in a small town Randall.”
Ellie set her fork down and tilted her head as she looked Randall’ in the eye. “Is that true Randall?”
“What, you hadn’t heard about it yet?”
“Guess I don’t get out much.”
Randall stood up abruptly, slamming his knee on the underside of the table and causing their plates to jump. “God damn, blabbering Walter. I told him to keep his trap shut.”
“Awe come now Randall.” Cletus worked his way back into the conversation. “You had to have known it was going to get out. I had to go all the way to the Exxon station ten miles outside of town, just to throw some gas in my tank. Now that’s big news around here.”
“Mommy, what’s a murder?”
Ellie ignored the question. There would be lots of time to explain to Aiden the horrors of the world, and Ellie didn’t want to start tonight. But she couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer and decided to try and pry some more information out of Randall. “Who is it? The victim I mean, is it anyone we know?”
Randall’s ears grew red. He cleared his plate from the table and made his way to the kitchen, bumping the swinging door with his backside.
“This discussion is closed. I don’t want to hear another word about it, understand?” The tone in his voice left no room for argument. They sat there silent for a moment before Ellie excused herself and followed Randall into the kitchen. Inside, she found him leaning up against the refrigerator and nursing a newly popped Budweiser, entrenched in thought. This town was like a giant sewing circle with all the residents slowly knitting away while trying to be the next person to spill some irresistible gossip. As usual, Randall sat in the middle, often the topic of conversation. The taste it left in his mouth was sickening- he was just so damn sick of it all- now he had to be careful how he questioned people or they could leak vital details to the killer himself without even knowing it. Ellie stopped just short of him, debating whether or not to roust him from his thought, afraid she might anger him further.
“Randall, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“Forget it.” Another gulp of Bud followed.
“I won’t ask anymore questions, okay.” The silence hummed in the air. “Listen, Cletus said he would take Aiden tonight. Are you up to having some company?” It was more of a request than a question. The softness of her voice had its desired effect, calming Randall down and sending his thoughts elsewhere. He turned around slowly, gazing at her while he spoke.
“I think I would like some company tonight.”
She lay with her head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing. This was the time she relished, resting in his arms and basking in the afterglow of their love making sessions. He was a quiet man and not much for pillow talk, but Ellie was content just to be near him, to feel the energy that radiated out from him. She pulled gently at the hair on his chest with her left hand, running her fingers through it and contemplating how she was going to say what was on her mind. She decided there was no other way but to just come straight out with it.
“Randall.”
“Um hmm.” His
voice was groggy with the first stage of sleep.
“I love you.” There was an awkward moment where he just opened his eyes and looked at her, not saying anything. Ellie felt like crawling into a hole afraid of how he might respond. “Do you love me?”
FOURTEEN
He had done everything right. That sniveling nosey son of a bitch Hagstrom must have found the body. What in the hell was he doing going through his own trash, like some kind of hobo. His hands were shaking again, only this time it was worse, much worse. The last time he could remember shaking this badly was five years ago when he tried to stop drinking. He had gone camping alone up near Mt. Hood in Oregon, taking with him his fishing gear and two fifths of scotch. The whiskey bit a little better than the trout that day and before he even had a nibble he had polished off both bottles, leaving him three sheets and a bedspread to the wind.
The drunken fishing turned out to be one calamity after the other; he had slipped on the riverbank and fallen in twice, scaring the fish and making his testicles leap into his stomach at the first splash of the frigid glacier runoff. Then, on what turned out to be his last cast of the day he had snared a tree limb on the opposite bank, tying up his best lure and making him livid. He had slashed his wrist nearly half an inch deep while trying to cut the line loose, causing himself to damn near bleed to death right there on the riverbank. His doc had said he was lucky to regain full use of his fingers. The decision to stop drinking was self rendered right then and there, and he made it nearly four days before the shakes and twitches had come on violently, making him act the part of an epileptic with a surly disposition.
He brought his mind back to reality and focused on his new problems, but first he needed a drink. Sobriety didn’t work then and he was pretty damn sure that it wouldn’t work now. He set up three shot glasses listening to their bottoms clink against the marble top bar, and then wrapped his left hand around the bottle and his right hand around his wrist in a feeble effort to steady his aim. The whiskey splashed out of the bottle filling the glasses and watering the bar, still most of it made it into the glasses and most of it was acceptable. When he was twenty-one Darrow had been in a bar and seen a businessman with the shakes trying to down a pint of ale and spilling most of it on his lap. He finally succeeded by wrapping his tie around his wrist to steady his arm. What a pathetic fuck, Darrow had thought to himself. I’ll never be like that. Now look at you Jacky boy, you pathetic fuck, shaking so badly you couldn’t hit a barn door if you had to piss. He downed the shots one by one. That ought to take some of the edge off.
He stood up from the kitchen stool and pulled the underwear out of the crack of his ass with his good hand. His thumb still throbbed every time he used it. He had pulled the bandage off to “let it breath” like his momma always told him to do, but Jesus did it ache while it was breathing. Darrow placed the thumb in his mouth, feeling the searing burn as the wound adjusted to the elevated temperature in his mouth before settling down to a dull throbbing ache. He snatched the bottle of whiskey off the counter and stumbled his way to the door, chugging half the bottle on his way and heading straight for a quick nap on the living room sofa.
Inside the living room was shrouded in darkness, outside the moon was glowing in a half crescent. Darrow watched it through the bay window marveling about the origins of the universe the way drunks are apt to do. He plopped down on the sofa, feeling the metal springs scrape against his back. The upholstery had seen better days, and the springs had worked their way through the orange felt, jutting from the fabric like needles in a pushpin. Darrow peered around at the interior of the living room, and smiled. He certainly wasn’t going to make the cover of Good Frickin’ Housekeeping. The room itself was massive, with twenty feet high ceilings and a stone hearth fireplace complete with a mantle higher than a man’s head. It had the ability to make you feel tiny while you were standing in it. To enhance the ambience Darrow had added the couch, a scuffed up coffee table, and a twenty-seven inch television set resting comfortably on the floor.
He took another long swig from the bottle and slammed it down on the oak coffee table, adding another scratch to the collection of blemishes adorning its top. His mother’s head looked up at him from the coffee table where it sat. It was most displeased.
“That’s what happens when you don’t use a coaster Jacky boy.”
“Well I’m not using a coaster now momma and I don’t give a fuck, you hear me? I could care less if I scratch the shit out of your precious coffee table, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it because you’re dead.” Darrow threw his head back and laughed, an angry morbid laugh. “You hear me bitch? YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD!” Spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed and the laughs subsided into muffled sobs. He clutched the bottle one more time and drained the remaining whisky, feeling the slow burn as it worked its way down his windpipe. He dropped the bottle at his feet, listening to it rattle against the hardwood before falling silent. His mothers head vanished from his subconscious, winking out in a flash and Leaving Jack alone again.
“You’re fucking dead.” It came out as a whisper.
The room was beginning to spin. If there was ever a blight cast upon alcoholics it wasn’t the vomiting, or the cirrhosis, or even the shakes, it was the damn spins. The awful merry go round that turned incessantly every time he closed his eyes, tormenting him mercilessly when all he wanted was to get some sleep. Darrow forced himself to stand, placing his hand against the armrest and pressing his body upward. He wobbled at the top, swaying back and forth willing himself not to topple over. Then he placed one foot in front of the other and began to pace the living room. Gotta keep moving Jacky boy, or the spins will catch up to ya.
The shadow moved out of the corner of his eye. Darrow wheeled about on one foot facing the north wall, wobbling the entire time and struggling to maintain his balance. It had a comical appearance when viewed from afar, like a drunken tightrope walker performing a pirouette. What in the hell was that? It had darted across the room trying to cross the patch of moonlight while he wasn’t watching. But he had seen it, even while drunk his eyes were catlike, tracing the movement through the darkness.
“I saw you. So you might as well come out you little bastard.” The words came out slurred and slow. Christ I’m drunk he thought, I sound like Abby. “Come out you little shit, or I’ll rip you a new one!”
His words were filled with false bravado. Truth be told, Darrow was scared. And it had to be something pretty God damn freaky to break through the liquid courage that was pumping through his veins. He began to shuffle his feet slowly backwards, not wanting to make any sudden movements. His boots scraped along the floorboards. Darrow reached back behind him, feeling for the sofa. He found it and traced his fingers along the armrest as he worked his way over to the empty whisky bottle. He began to shuffle faster, assuming the worst and not wanting to be unprepared if it came for him. One thing was for sure, if that thing did have any intentions of coming for him it would get a face full of glass.
(assuming it has a face)
Jesus Jack, you’re loosing it. No need to go and get all panicky, just a little further and-
The back of his boot struck the whisky bottle kicking it into the leg of the coffee table producing a clang that sounded like a gunshot in the empty living room. He spun around prepared to snatch the bottle off the floor, instead he kicked it again sending it sliding across the room and crashing into the hearth where it spun like a top on the stone and oscillated under its unbalanced weight.
(just like spin the bottle Jacky)
Darrow dropped to his knees and began to crawl towards the spinning bottle as fast as he could.
(‘round it goes, where it stops nobody knows)
He could feel the thing moving up behind him, enraged by the clamor and his idle threats. The bottle began to slow its rotation, growing louder as its oscillations became closer together. At last he had spanned the distance between the sofa and the fireplace, his hand clamped down on t
he bottleneck and he flipped from his knees to his hind quarters bringing the bottle around in a swinging arc, expecting to hear the crunch of glass against bone.
(or whatever that thing is made of)
Instead he found himself alone. Like the pathetic fuck of a drunk that he had become, alone and drunk and scared. He disgusted himself. He tried to rise from his seated position but lost his balance instead, falling backward and smashing his head against the stone, creating blinding pain behind his eyes and rattling his molars.
“Son of a bitch!”
Darrow hurled the bottle against the far wall in his anger, striking a steel support beam underneath the drywall. The bottle exploded with a loud pop and then seemed to fall to the ground in slow motion, the tiny shards of glass illuminated briefly in the moonlight like a child’s fourth of July sparkler, and then they were gone, disappearing into the darkness below. Darrow placed his head in his hands and wept. He cried like a scared little boy, and in many ways that’s exactly what he was.
At first Abby was terrified, Brenda had an uncanny knack for waking her up in the middle of the night when the sky was darkest and the room was chilled with inactivity. She supposed ghosts didn’t adhere to common etiquette rules concerning calling after hours. Tonight Brenda had chosen a rather chilling way to roust Abby from her sleep. It was not intentionally malicious or even planned out in any way, but the result was terrifying nonetheless. Abby heard a peculiar sound that filtered its way into the cortex of her brain, and incorporated itself into her dreams.
CHHT. CHHT. CHHT.
Abby’s mind struggled to find an image for the strange sound. She had been dreaming about the days she spent as a teenager, by Tuscar’s Lake. The hot Arizona sun pounded down on her and her friends while they swam and frolicked about on the lakeshore. Suddenly her father was there, sitting Indian style and whittling a piece of driftwood as he often did during those days. Each stroke of the knife coincided with the sound filling her ears.
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