by Greg Barth
“Thirsty?” She handed me a half-empty bottle of water.
“Thanks.”
“Sorry about falling apart on you back there. I think I just panicked. Wow, that was so scary.”
“Honey, being a pacifist is nice and all, but you shouldn’t be surprised when people behave like animals. Lilly Bett back there? She had bad intentions for us.”
“Oh, that’s a bit extreme. Animals, really? It’s not like these things happen every day.”
“Every single one of us, honey. Take my word for it. Just under the surface, we’re animals.”
“You’ve been exposed to things that aren’t normal, Selena. It’s distorted your view on things. So I don’t believe that. The world isn’t really like that.”
I left her to enjoy her delusions. Part of me was still in that nightmare.
A man had hurt me once. Hurt me in a cruel way. The handcuffs brought it all back. That man was Albert Harding, a federal prosecutor.
They call it diesel therapy. An inmate is most at risk to escape from prison when they’re outside of the prison itself. The dicks know this. So they make sure you’re physically immobilized when you’re being transported. It’s for their safety and to prevent a breakout.
It’s also physically uncomfortable.
They incapacitate you for days on end, subject you to unnecessary travel. You try to endure while they torture you with it. Time works against you, and the treatment grinds away your soul day by day until you break.
“Some people are worse,” I said. “Worse than animals. Some people are monsters.”
She just looked at me. I couldn’t see her face in the shadows, but I sensed her discomfort.
“What?” I said.
She didn’t respond, just sat there in the darkness. Neither of us moved for several seconds. Then she shook her head.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re wrong. I am not a monster. Okay? I am not a fucking monster.”
I took another pull on the whiskey. Somewhere along the way, on the dark road, I passed into a restless sleep.
***
The sun was creeping up over the horizon, exposing the leftover sins from the night before when I regained consciousness. I never feel more like shit than I do at the crack of dawn.
I had a headache, a bad taste in my mouth, and the nice sex smells my body had made the night before were starting to sour.
“Find a motel,” I said. “I need a toothbrush, a hot bath, and you need a nap before we hit this barbecue joint.”
“I doubt they serve breakfast at Blake’s Barbecue Barn anyway,” Chris said.
She took us by a drive-thru for coffee then pulled in to the nastiest motor lodge I’d ever seen. A relic from the 1940s. Fresh painted maybe ten years ago, white with blue trim, and now covered in brown dust. Looked like something out of a cheap horror movie.
We carried our bags into the office with us. A morbidly obese lady with curlers in her hair and wearing a house coat leaned back in a recliner behind the counter. She was staring at a small-screen TV in the corner. Without looking at us she said, “Yes?”
“Checking in,” I said.
She didn’t move. “Check in time isn’t until one o’clock.”
“We’ll pay you for yesterday too.”
“Better not be up to no trouble,” she said. Slowly she sat up in the chair, planted her feet carefully, stood, and made the few steps over to the counter. “Forty-eight dollars a night plus taxes.”
“That works,” I said.
“Credit card.”
“I’m paying with cash,” I said.
“Credit card.” She said it like I was an idiot.
I stared at her. My head pounded.
“I’ve got this,” Chris said.
I stepped aside and let Chris take care of the room.
The lady gave us the key to the room and told us the number. “We don’t tolerate no illegal activity in this motel,” she said. “I’ll be keeping my eye on the two of you.”
“How would you do that?” I said. I was feeling particularly bitchy.
“Pardon?”
“’Cause it’d mean getting off your judgmental, half-ton—”
Chris jabbed me hard with her elbow.
“Ow.”
The lady’s jaw dropped. She squinted at me. “Do I know you? You look awful familiar.”
I suddenly had nothing else to say to her.
“Look,” Chris said. She flashed a pretty smile. “We’re just here for a church thing. Bible study and Sunday school. We won’t be any trouble to you. If you hear us praying too loud, just call the room.”
The lady’s mouth twisted up. Her chubby cheeks dimpled. “Mm hmm,” she said. She didn’t sound convinced.
We grabbed the bags and went to our room.
A shitty motel room, same as any other. Mismatched furniture, brown wood-grain paneled walls, dirty blue carpet. Smelled like stale cigarettes, dried semen, and dog.
I got in the shower first, took my time washing. I didn’t want any part of Lilly Bett’s dried blood left on me.
“You want in?” I called to Chris when I was finished.
“Leave it running.”
I got out, passed her on her way in. I dried off, grabbed what was left of the George Dickel and slipped naked between the sheets.
Things weren’t going well. I was no closer to finding Bucky. I was running on borrowed time, and people that cared about me were at risk.
I was almost asleep when Chris crawled into bed with me. I was lying on one side. She scooted in close and put her arm around me.
“Hey pretty kitty,” I mumbled as I drifted off.
ELEVEN
THE STREETS IN Spartanburg were insane. I’d no idea who the city planners were, but I was sure they’d been smoking rock the day they drew up the roads.
Chris’s phone spoke directions. We both heard them, but Chris felt the need to repeat everything the phone said.
“It says to continue straight,” she said.
“I can’t continue straight. Look. There’s orange barrels and shit. It’s a dead end.”
“It wants you to be on that road.” She pointed at another lane in the distance. A guard rail and some tall weeds prevented me from getting there.
“Should I go through the grass?”
“Hang on. Maybe if I…” Chris growled at the phone. “Come on, damn you.”
I assumed she was speaking to the pleasant-sounding phone bitch.
I turned in the street and proceeded back the way we’d come. I ignored the phone when it told me to make a U-turn.
After several frustrating minutes of this, we finally had to stop at a gas station for directions. The clerk spoke broken English, and I had no familiarity with the city, but I trusted him far more than the phone bitch. With the series of complex turns all written down, we went back out with more confidence.
Back in the car, I told Chris to turn off her phone and read me the written instructions.
“Looks like we’ll be having barbecue for lunch,” she said.
“I hope it’s that pleasant,” I said.
“Oh come on. You’ll see. I mean, it’s a public restaurant. How bad could it be?”
I turned up the volume on the CD player. The track playing was “Shot Down in Flames.”
***
It was 10:30 a.m. by the time we arrived at Blakes’ Barbecue Barn. The building resembled a large red barn with one side painted like a Confederate flag. It sat atop a hill overlooking the landfill. The parking lot was gravel and dust.
“You think they’ve got vegan barbecue at this joint?” I said.
“Ha ha. I’m sure they don’t.”
A sign on the door said the bar opened at 11:30 on weekdays. We had a bit of time yet.
“They’ve got two-dollar draft beer,” I said.
“This is a redneck joint, isn’t it?” Chris said.
“Don’t be so quick to judge. For all we know there’s linen table cloths in that…bar
n.”
She laughed.
I drove around the building, checking it out. A large, wood-fire grill in the back under a covered shelter top with a smokestack to let the smoke out. The grill was large enough to cook a side of beef, whole pig, a few chickens, sausages, foil-wrapped salmon, veggies, and whatever else you wanted to throw on there, all at the same time. Picnic tables surrounded the grill.
Another building stood off to the side. Blake’s Butcher Shop. A sign in the window said, “Now Open Saturdays From 12p to 3p.” Another announced, “Blake’s Grillin’ Sauce now available by the gallon!” A rebel flag flew at half-mast above the shop.
No other cars in the lot. I pulled in by the Butcher Shop and parked.
“So we just wait?” Chris said.
I saw something through the weeds and trees down the slope from the barn. Looked like an old house down there.
“Somebody’ll be along to prep for lunch, but we’ve probably got a little while. Let’s walk down the hill there and see if anybody’s in that old house. They may know something about the family, where to find Bucky.”
“No,” she said. “I’m going to stretch my legs up here a bit. Enjoy some quiet solitude.”
I shook my head. “I don’t like us being apart.”
“We’re both big girls. But take your pistol. Just in case.”
“If anybody shows up here, don’t talk to them. Come straight down to that house and get me.”
“Yes, mom.”
We both got out of the car. I put the pistol in the back waistband of my skirt.
***
A worn path led through the weeds and down the slope to the house. Whoever lived there had to be a regular customer, or had been.
The house was old. Wooden, white. Covered porch with a tin roof. The windows were clean with lacy white curtains on the inside.
A petite black lady with short white hair sat on a metal glider on the porch. Her lips pursed together like she was missing a lot of teeth. She wore a faded pink shirt and mom jeans, mumbled something under her breath.
I stepped from the path onto the crumbling concrete walkway that led up to her porch.
She grinned when she saw me. “Why hey there. Are you comin’ to see me?”
“Hi,” I said. “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“No honey, you’re fine. I’m just sitting out here talking to myself like a crazy person.” She laughed. “Same as I always do.”
“I’m hoping you can tell me about the people that own the barbecue joint up on the hill?”
“You sure are a pretty thing. My name’s Adelia. Come in.” She stood and opened the screen door. We stepped into her dark house. It was small and cramped inside but well-kept. Lots of furniture and pictures—pictures of family, pictures of Jesus, pictures of churches; knick-knacks; doilies, and various other gimcrackery. The house smelled like spice of some sort.
“Can I fix you something to eat?” she said.
“No, but thanks.”
She gestured to a vinyl couch along one wall. I sat. She took a seat in a wooden rocking chair across from me.
“Nice place,” I said.
“What do you want to know about them Blakes for? Them people ain’t no good.”
I sighed. “I know. I need to talk to them, though. I’m trying to find Bucky.”
“Oh, I ain’t seen Bucky around in a long time, praise Jesus.”
“But the family owns the restaurant. Right?”
“Ira Blake. He’s the one owns it. Owns it, runs it, Lord only knows what he does. All them Blakes, you know, is bad people. Ain’t none of them worth nothing.”
“Sounds like they have a reputation.”
“I don’t usually judge, but them Blakes is just pure trash. Get away with murder. They’s this one time when Ira shot a man who was comin’ around seein’ his daughter Lilly Bett, sneakin’ around like young ’uns’ll do. She’d done put the fella up to it, you know. He was just innocent. And her bein’ so pretty like she was. Ira, he done shot that poor boy through the chest. Killed him just like that. Said it was self-defense. ’Course the laws around here don’t mess with the Blakes. I tell you, that man got away with cold-blooded murder that day.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Oh, that’s just the beginnin’. Bucky’s the only one got in serious trouble. That’s ’cause he’s too much an idiot and started causin’ trouble away from here. People from away won’t tolerate that kind of behavior.”
“He’s caused me some trouble these last couple of days,” I said. “So I need to find him.”
“Now, if I’s you, I’d stop looking for Bucky Blake. Whatever he did to you, just let it go. Lookin’ for him’s just courtin’ trouble, you ask me.”
“I think I need to see Ira. The father. That’s probably my best move now.”
“Honey, Ira’s a bad man. Runs with the KKK. I’m tellin’ you, now. You watch out for them Blakes. They’s a bad bunch, ever’ last one. Ira, Corbin, Timmy, Lilly Bett, Jackson, Bucky. Ira’s the worst of ’em by far. But the young ’uns got their meanness honest. They gonna bust hell wide open one day, you watch and see. Glory be to Jesus.”
“Does Ira come to the restaurant regularly?”
“Ira? Ever’ day. Usually pulls in about this time as a matter of fact. I get up to the butcher shop ever’ now and again. I don’t like it none, but it’s so convenient. I see him out there, I don’t say nothin’ to him. But he’ll show up. You watch for him. He’ll be along directly.”
“About this time?” I thought of Chris back at the car. I stood in a panic. “Ah, fuck,” I said.
Adelia’s jaw dropped in surprise. Her mouth widened into a broad, toothless grin.
I threw up my hand, covered my mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
She laughed. “God bless you, child. You all right.”
“I have to go,” I said. “Thank you so much, Adelia.”
TWELVE
I TOOK THE dirt path back up to the restaurant parking lot at a fast clip. My heart pounded and my breath was short by the time my feet were back on gravel. It was a strenuous incline, but I was worried for Chris.
Once again we’d separated while on Blake property. Not a mistake we could continue to make.
Two pickup trucks were parked behind the restaurant. I looked around for Chris. She said she was going to stretch her legs. I didn’t see her anywhere.
Fuck!
I walked around the front of the building. My car was still there, parked next to the butcher shop. No sign of Chris.
A sinking feeling hit my gut.
I climbed the couple of steps up to the concrete walkway in front of the butcher shop. The door was locked.
I cupped my hands around my face to block the sun’s glare and peered through the window. No one was inside.
My mouth was dry.
“Where are you?” I mumbled.
I turned and walked over to the restaurant. The closed sign was on the glass front door. I pulled on the handle anyway. Locked. I didn’t see anyone inside.
I walked along the side of the restaurant, the gravel crunching beneath my sneakers with each step, the sun warm on my bare legs.
I rounded the corner. This side of the building was shaded. A rock propped the back door open a crack.
I listened at the door, didn’t hear any voices but an odd squeaking sound came from inside.
I checked to make sure the pistol was still tucked in the back of my skirt. There in the waist, nice and snug.
I opened the door slowly and stepped inside. The door opened to a dark storage room—red tile flooring, cardboard boxes stacked all around. The room smelled of dust and paper. Another door was open. The room beyond was lit.
No other sound but the rhythmic squeaking.
I walked up to the open door and looked through. The room contained a large, three-basin sink. Dishes were stacked on the shelving above and around the sink. I stepped into the room. Another open door. I could
see through to the kitchen beyond. Didn’t see anyone inside—I only had a partial view of the room—but that’s where the squeaking sound was coming from.
I walked up to the door to the kitchen.
The scene in front of me was horrific.
***
Had I grabbed for my pistol immediately, things might have turned out differently, but I was too shocked by what I saw.
A row of vat fryers lined one wall. These were not McDonald’s-sized fryers. They were larger, industrial, built to fry up large quantities for big groups. Fry baskets hung above the dark grease. A long grill with a shiny vent hood above was further down from the fryers.
A man leaned against one of the fryers. He had curly blonde hair spilling from a red Blake’s BBQ cap. A white apron covered most of his yellow t-shirt. He held an automatic pistol in one hand, casually aimed at the ground, a giant smartphone in his other hand, pointed away from himself. The phone cover was camouflage, and he held it horizontally. It took me a second, but I realized he was using it to record the sick thing going on inside the kitchen.
The phone pointed toward a long stainless steel table that ran through the center of the room. Five heads of cabbage sat on the table closest to me. One of the cabbages had been sliced in half. A long-bladed kitchen knife sat next to it. Each head of cabbage trembled as the table shook back and forth under them.
Further down, Chris lay across the table on her back, naked. One man stood at her head. He held an electric extension cord around her neck. Chris’s head was pulled back and down over the edge of the table. The cord was pulled so tight her face was dark red, almost purple. Her eyes bulged from their sockets, her mouth open trying to get air. A thin line of white foam ran from her mouth and down her cheek.
Another man stood between her legs, his pants down around his ankles. His eyes were closed, a look of intense concentration on his face. He had a black t-shirt that had “America For Whites” printed on the front.
Chris’s knees were bent at the edge of the table, calves dangling toward the floor. The man’s fat, bare ass pumped back and forth furiously. He held Chris’s hands by the wrists. The squeaking sounds were in time with his thrusts and came from one of the table legs shifting against the floor with each push. Her breasts bounced with each prod from the man between her legs.