Saltar's Point

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Saltar's Point Page 14

by Ott, Christopher Alan


  “Shit.” He muttered under his breath. His trained eye did notice something that might be helpful. The tracks were far apart, made by a vehicle with a wider base than an average car, like a truck or SUV, or maybe even a van. One particular van came to mind. He took another drag from his cigarette and surveyed the scene again. The terrain banked slightly creating a small knoll that culminated in a four-foot wide basin about forty yards from where he knelt. At the base of the small hill he noticed a bare patch of earth where the grass had been killed off from stagnant water that had collected there before being absorbed into the ground. His hopes arose; he stood and walked calmly over to the spot. There lying as silent witness was a perfectly formed tire tread.

  “Bingo.” He said and depressed the button on his radio. “Wooding come in.” He released the button and waited for a response.

  Bernie’s pub was packed. The usual regulars lined the bar, looking to get a good Friday night buzz by tossing back a few suds. The bar itself was relatively small, accommodating only eight stools that balanced four and four along the L shaped countertop. Cletus worked behind it, swabbing out beer mugs with the dishcloth he kept tossed over his left shoulder and setting the patrons up with a fresh round whenever they went dry. He wore a plain white apron over his faded overalls protecting him from the grease spatters that shot from the grill in the back where he cooked up burgers and fries. On Fridays and Saturdays Carol Tennant came in to handle the waitress duties, taking orders and running out fresh beers to the thirsty customers. She was a heavyset woman in her early fifties with graying brown hair pulled up in a bun. Her face served as an artistic palate on which she applied excessive rouge and far too much eye shadow, but she had an easy way about her and always addressed her customers with a kind word or a clever nickname. All the regulars had one, from the standards like hon and sweetie, to more personalized names for the old-timers. She worked hard for her meager tips, taking care of the six regular tables and the waist-high counter that traversed the back wall allowing the pool players a place to set their beer. In her fifteen years of waiting tables at Bernie’s pub she had never had a problem she couldn’t handle, until tonight.

  “You tell that old bastard behind the counter that this burger is too well done.” Darrow shoved the plastic basket across the table, knocking over the saltshaker and testing Carol’s patience, it was the second one he had sent back tonight.

  “If it were any rarer it’d still be chewing its cud.”

  “Yeah, well that’s the way I like it so move your ass.” He drained the rest of his beer. “And bring me a fresh brewski.”

  Carol had seen enough of Jack Darrow in five minutes to know that she didn’t like him, but it had only taken her a few seconds to sense that he was not someone she wanted to tussle with. So she bit her lip and took the basket back to the bar. Cletus spotted her coming and judged by her look that Darrow was unhappy yet again.

  “That’s one mean S.O.B. back there.” She said as she plopped the basket on the counter. “He says this one’s too done as well.”

  Cletus frowned as he grabbed the basket. “Well we don’t want any trouble in here so I’ll just fry up another one.”

  “Make sure you just sear it for about five seconds on each side, I really don’t give a rip if that man gets ill or not. Serve ‘im right anyway.”

  “He wants it rare then that’s what’ll get.” Cletus winked the way he always did whenever Carol needed cheering up, it always worked too. She had to strain to keep the smile off her face.

  Across the room Darrow wasn’t making any friends either. He had made his way over to the jukebox unable to refrain from voicing his displeasure at the music selection.

  “What the hell is all this shit anyway? Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks, George Jones, it’s like a God damn hayseed convention in here.”

  Marvin Murdock and Billy Taylor sat at their usual table just a couple of feet from the jukebox, shaking their heads and thinking what a prick the new guy was. They wore the usual attire for a night out drinking in Saltar’s Point, work boots caked with dry mud, jeans, and flannel shirts. Their mesh baseball caps completed the local wardrobe fashion. They watched as Darrow scanned the play list looking for something more to his liking. He found it, a little AC/DC should liven this place up a little. He plopped four quarters into the machine and made his selections. The jukebox blared to life.

  “Yeah, now we’re talking.” He sung along. “Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap, dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.” The alcohol had taken full affect. As he backed up he lost his balance and bumped into the table knocking over the pitcher of beer, sending a wave of suds splashing onto Marvin’s lap.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing buddy?” Marvin rose to his full height of six foot three, towering over Darrow by a good four inches. The beer dripped from his crotch running down his pant leg and pooling in a small puddle on the floor.

  “Whoa calm down pardner, just a little ax-cee-dent.” He drawled the words out doing his best country accent impression.

  “You want to take this outside buddy.” He moved closer to Darrow staring him down. Darrow sized him up and despite the alcohol pumping through his system thought better of picking a fight with Marvin Murdock.

  “Now calm down buddy. I didn’t mean no harm, my apologies.” He extended his hand. Marvin’s grip was near bone pulverizing. “Waitress!” Darrow bellowed. “Set my new friend up with another pitcher, on me of course.”

  It had the desired effect. Marvin sat back down still mumbling under his breath but no longer ready to pummel Darrow. Jack strolled over to the bar like nothing had happened and plopped a fifty-dollar bill down on the counter. Cletus eyed him warily expecting trouble, but Darrow was on his best behavior.

  “That ought to cover it. See ya around Clete.” And then he turned and exited the bar.

  On his way home he stopped the van just outside of Marvin Murdock’s small two-bedroom house. His faithful bloodhound Jasper bayed as the stranger approached the front steps.

  “Easy now boy. It’s all right, easy now.” Jasper let down his guard, wagging his tail amicably. Darrow withdrew his buck knife from his belt, humming a familiar tune as he did so. (Dirty deeds done dirt cheap, dirty deeds and they’re done dirt cheap.)

  Abby was in the master bedroom on the second floor. The room was massive, with a large walk in closet and adjoining bathroom that opened through a vaulted archway. Why Jack insisted on spending his time in the basement rather than setting up his bedroom in here was beyond her, but then again anything he did these days was beyond the boundaries of conventional wisdom. On the west wall a large bookcase that was built into the paneling extended from the floor to the ceiling twelve feet up, other than that the room was bare.

  She had been exploring the floor when Jack was out boozing or doing whatever else it was that he did. Although it was a grueling process to roll her wheelchair even a few feet, she had plenty of time and a fervid determination to regain a small part of her independence. She had been getting stronger, albeit slowly. Her arms had begun to regain a little bit of the muscle tone she had before the accident. Her hands had formed calluses, protecting the soft meaty flesh beneath. She was determined. For two years now she had relied on Jack for everything. It was time to change that.

  The sweat poured from her brow, trickling down her forehead and stinging her eyes. It would be easy to give up, to succumb to her frailties but she would not. The anger welled inside of her, she did not deserve this. She wanted to scream, to cry out to the heavens, WHY! Why me God. She had given everything to this man and he had spurned her, choosing the comforting familiarity of the bottle over the love of his wife. Her friends had warned her of course. Jack Darrow was not the sort of man in which a girl should become involved. Utilizing a sixth sense that only good friends seemed to have they pleaded and they begged, but she would not listen. At parties they steered clear, congregating around the punch bowl and waddling away like geese from an approaching golfer whenev
er Jack came near, not wanting any part of him.

  But fate was fate, intertwining with the choices she had cast so long ago. Nothing in life was ever easy. The words her mother had so often whispered to her now rang in her ears as though she were still here, giving advice to those who would choose to listen. She was listening now. Jack would be home soon she knew. It was growing late and the bars would be closing, casting out the patrons who had had too much to drink, and those still searching desperately for someone to take home with them. He would not be pleased if he found her outside her room, preferring her to stay confined within the bounds of her bedchamber.

  God I wish he were dead.

  The thought came from the back reaches of her mind, startling her with its blatant ferocity. She had harbored a deep seeded resentment for Jack ever since the accident, but her conscience had pushed it from the forefront of her mind, not wanting to admit the hatred that had been welling inside her. She calmed herself. There was no need in crying over spent nickels. Abby forced the wretched thoughts from her head, she would not pay them heed.

  She steeled herself, preparing to wheel herself from the room languishing over the needed effort she would need to accomplish the task. Abby pushed down on the right wheel, spinning herself counter clockwise. The chair creaked as she exerted her effort. As she slowly spun a glaring observation jumped out at her, so striking she had wondered how she could have possibly overlooked it before. Attached to the right hand side of the bookcase were three brass hinges securely fastening it to the paneling. They were rusted and it was apparent that they had not been used in a long time, but there was no mistaking the fact that the bookcase was also a door. Abby paused for a second, debating her next move. Jack would be home soon and if he caught her snooping around in some hidden room he might become angry enough to beat her, but the curiosity was bubbling up inside of her. She made her decision and pushed the chair forward rolling closer to the looming bookcase. Abby peered up the side looking for some secret button or lever, or maybe even some misplaced book that might trigger the opening mechanism, but she could find nothing of the sort. The hinges denoted by their position that the bookcase swung outward into the room so she tried the simplest solution of all. Rolling herself over to the left side she pulled the edge like a handle. The bookcase swung open easily. I’ve been watching too many Edgar Allen Poe movies she thought.

  Inside a dark dusty corridor awaited her. She looked into the darkness trying to see if she could get a glimpse of where the passageway went, but the darkness was too thick, blocking out her vision a mere ten feet from where she sat. Well I guess there’s only one way to find out Abby girl, time to get rolling. Her chair squeaked again as she moved forward. The passageway was narrow, a mere three feet from side to side and the proximity of the walls placed a dreadful thought in her mind, she would not be able to turn around. Rolling the chair backwards was a much more tedious task than moving forward. If the passageway had any considerable length to it she might be forced to wait for Jack to pull her out. It would be a most unpleasant confrontation. She bit her lip and continued forward trying vainly to picture the floor plan in her mind. From the main hallway a small study occupied the space directly west of here, but the room was shallow and Abby figured that she must be on the north side of that wall. When she was about five feet in she breathed a sigh of relief. On the right side of the hallway was a solitary light switch. She held her breath and flipped it on hoping that it was still operational. A single sixty-watt bulb popped to life illuminating the corridor in a soft incandescent light.

  The hallway was fairly shallow extending maybe another twenty feet to a small wooden door at the opposite end. There was another problem, the hallway began to slope gently downward and it would be difficult to wheel herself back up even if she was able turn around in the far room. And what if the door was locked or something was leaning against it on the other side? She definitely could not make the trek up the slope backwards. But she had come this far already and her curiosity was fueled more with each passing foot. She gritted her teeth and pushed on. The chair began to roll forward with ease, the gentle tug of gravity pulling her onward. As the slope increased the chair began to accelerate. Abby pressed her hands against the rubber wheels, trying desperately to slow herself. The rubber bit into the flesh of her palms, burning her like a moving rope unyielding to the violent friction. She cried out with pain as the wheels removed a small patch of skin exposing the tender nerve endings underneath, making her hands throb. She let go instinctively and the wheelchair accelerated, moving beyond the bounds of her control. The roller coaster image came to mind again, only this time she was descending down the first terrifying drop. She careened off the sides of the hallway like a pinball, knocking dust loose and producing a hollow thumping sound against the thin walls. The waiting door was growing larger quickly and Abby braced herself for impact. The steel leg rests struck the door first making a cracking sound and pitching the chair forward. Abby brought her hands up to protect her face but her arms were far too weak to absorb the momentum and her forehead slammed against the oak surface nearly knocking her unconscious before her body recoiled back into the chair.

  She sat unmoving for a while, trying to control the throbbing pain in her forehead, content just to be motionless and using the time to steady her breathing. The door had a small brass doorknob with no keyhole. A good sign, since there was no lock to contend with. She reached out and turned the knob clockwise. There was gentle click before the door swung inward.

  The awaiting room was miniscule, eight by eight feet with no windows or any other doors, at least none that were visible. Abby wondered how many hidden passageways and secrets rooms Talcott Manor harbored. In the center of the room sat a small oak table and a single chair. Atop the table sat a small battery powered reading lantern, some stationary, a penholder filled to near bursting with an assortment of pens and pencils, and several dusty books strewn about haphazardly with no apparent organization at all. The walls were adorned with a variety of objects. A large bundle of rope, a survival knife –Rambo style- several flashlights, and a large battery powered generator. It was almost as though Porter was expecting the apocalypse and had built a bunker above ground. Minus the food and water, it was a regular survival den. The light bulb from the hallway cast just enough light for her to make out the surrounding walls. Abby wheeled herself over to the table and pulled the chain hanging from the reading lamp, bathing the table in soft light.

  The collection of books was random, several novels, a Bible, some accounting ledgers, and several instruction manuals ranging from home improvement to personal income tax preparation. One book in particular caught her eye. It was bound in black leather, and the corners were cracked and faded denoting that the book had been put to good use. A single word scrolled in gold leaf lettering sat perfectly centered on the cover. DIARY. Abby smiled, she had always been one who was not shy about prying into the business of others and this should provide her with some interesting reading. She flipped it open and peered at the first page.

  RUPERT FREDERICK PORTER

  1924-1998

  The title page gave her pause. It was not a common occurrence to find a diary complete with the year of death. A macabre feeling settled over her, raising a row of goose bumps that stood the fine hair lining her arms on end. Her hands trembled slightly as she flipped to the next page.

  “ABBY!”

  The voice was barely audible but that did nothing to disguise the urgency that permeated it.

  “Abby you have to get out of here.” She recognized the voice as Brenda’s, but she had never heard her speak with such terror. She focused her thoughts as she had learned to do, and spoke with her mind.

  Brenda where are you?

  “I’m right here Abby.”

  Why can’t I see you? The odd circumstances of their conversation were beginning to give Abby alarm.

  “I’m weak. I can barely speak to you.”

  Why?

  “I do
n’t know, but you have to get out. Jack’s back and he’s thinking bad thoughts.”

  Where? Her panic elevated.

  “Downstairs, hurry Abby please.”

  That was all it took to shake Abby to the core. If Jack found her in here he would beat her senseless. In her panic she glanced again at the large hunting knife and an eerier thought crossed her mind but she quickly dismissed it. She could never bring herself to harm Jack and even if she could her arms were far too weak to inflict the necessary damage. She had to make it back to her room and the diary would have to wait. She gripped the wheels on her chair and turned herself around as fast as she could, banging into the table leg and knocking several books off in the process. They slammed against the floor with a loud thump that echoed through the walls and up the corridor. Perspiration rolled down her arms, making her hands slippery, she fought to get a good grip on the wheels. She slowly rolled herself out of the room and began to inch herself up the sloping corridor. She was unable to close the door behind her but that was the least of her worries. If Jack caught her down here there was sure to be a beating the likes of which she had never seen.

  It was an agonizing process, her arms burned with lactic acid as her body tried to pump adrenaline into her small atrophied muscles. Several times she had to pause a second to catch her breath but the strain of holding the wheels in place was exhausting. She felt them slip just a little before she halted them once again. Working one hand over the other she forced herself back up the ramp. At last she pushed the wheelchair through the open bookcase and utilizing strength she didn’t know she had slammed it shut behind her.

 

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