Penance

by Rick R. Reed

  “I should have known I couldn’t trust you to do anything right.”

  *

  The sweat trickled down from Dwight’s armpits, rolled over the flab at his sides. He backed farther away, shaking his head. “I can do this, anyway. If you’d just leave me be.”

  His aunt snorted with laughter. “We’ll see. We’ll just see.

  Dwight backed up more, until the back of his legs connected with the first of the boxes. He stumbled, almost fell.

  How could she be so critical? He’d gotten all of the things in their boxes now, ready to be transported, via the cleansing ride of fire, to their richly deserved ends.

  He turned, ignoring his aunt, and slid the lid off the next box. Under his arm was a big wad of rags and newspapers. He set them down for a moment to confront the face of his angel. Little T.

  * * *

  The light was so bright it hurt his eyes, but Little T made himself adjust, willing his pupils to shrink up, to get used to the glaring yellow.

  He frantically made noise beneath the duct tape, all of it coming out as stifled “mmms” and “wa-mumms.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what is it?” Dwight stooped and ripped the duct tape away from Little T’s mouth. Little T sucked in air at the sharp pain.

  “And you’d better not scream,” Dwight said.

  “Hey, mister,” he said and managed to smile, even though his lips felt like they’d crack when he did so. “You’re not gonna hurt me, are ya?” Somewhere, he knew, down deep inside him, was something that would appeal to this man, that would make the man love him, want to care for and protect him.

  It was what had always gotten him by, ever since he’d run away.

  It couldn’t fail him now.

  Surely this guy was human and he’d show some favoritism. Wouldn’t he? At least let Little T go even if he was planning some harm for the others?

  Little T felt he had to survive, he had to make it out of here somehow.

  But as he lay, bound and staring up at the one person who could help him, his smile faded. Dwight looked through him, scattering bits of rag and torn pages from a newspaper over his prostrate form.

  When he felt the cold splash of the gasoline, Little T closed his eyes, trying not to breathe in the fumes, trying not to think about what was coming.

  He couldn’t even scream, because if he opened his mouth, the gasoline would run inside.

  *

  “Two down,” Dwight said. “Four to go.” He rubbed his gasoline-wet hands on his pants.

  *

  Alice covered her mouth, running across the street, her eyes wild. She didn’t even bother to look to see if there was traffic before she barreled across the street, heading for her house. There was a scream inside her. But Alice couldn’t let it out, because if she did, it would never stop.

  She had to get to her house. Had to get to a phone.

  Was this all a nightmare?

  Please let me wake up. Alice headed for her door, groping for her keys in the pocket of her coat.

  *

  When Dwight opened the box for the black boy, War Zone, he stepped back to take a look at him. The boy had been mute for a long time, since he’d gotten over his fits of banging his heels against the side of the box. Dwight hadn’t even had to keep this one’s mouth taped.

  He was always so quiet, almost lifeless. Just like he was now. Dwight picked up one of the boy’s feet and looked at the back of his heel. It was raw, the dusky skin worn away to reveal pink flesh ringed in angry dark clotted blood, oozing pus. “Colorful,” Dwight whispered and let the heel go. It dropped back into the box, lifeless, with a thud.

  “You won’t mind this a bit, now will you?” Dwight said to the boy lying before him, and smiled. He began to distribute the rags and newspaper over the boy. “Hail Mary,” Dwight began, “full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”

  *

  War Zone felt the warmth, fluttering, coming over him. He knew it was winter, and it was cold. There was nothing more comforting than having Mama pull the covers up like this, keeping him all snug and warm.

  He knew he’d be able to sleep for hours more and the thought, along with the warmth, was comforting.

  He returned to his dream.

  A bright red Frisbee sailed through the air. War Zone tracked it through a bright blue sky, cloudless and clear. Red against blue. Summer heat.

  War Zone snatched the Frisbee out of the sky with his right hand.

  Raindrops had begun to fall; it was time to get inside.

  * * *

  Dwight doused the rags and newspaper covering War Zone with gasoline. He stopped to make sure the boy’s nappy hair was saturated.

  *

  Richard pulled himself up to a sitting position. He leaned against the wall, gasping for air. He’d never felt such pain in his throat. But I’ve got to put this pain aside…at least for now. His memory was beginning to clear and with a chilling preciseness, all that had happened in the previous hour or two was becoming more and more sharply defined.

  Managing to get on his hands and knees, Richard groped through the darkness of the house, terrified that the floorboards creaking beneath him would alert Morris.

  He knew, now, that the gunshots he’d heard earlier were real.

  He could only hope that someone wasn’t already lying dead. Richard stopped for a minute, caught his breath, and with a force of will he didn’t know he had, forced himself to stand. The movement took his breath away, caused his throat to throb with pain, but he thought he could summon the strength to at least try to do what he needed to do.

  The sounds he’d heard, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, came from below. They were all down there: they were all down there with him.

  He’ll kill me.

  The thought intruded every few seconds as Richard made his way around the house, looking for the door that would lead him to the basement. Another thought: They’re all dead, all those young lives, destroyed by someone I knew.

  Someone like me.

  Richard pushed the thought out of his mind. He’d located a door, in the kitchen, that looked promising.

  Where were the keys? Where were the keys? Alice Martin knelt by the Chinese yews at her front door and looked underneath them. In her rush to get inside, she had dropped her keys. Now, feeling the cold frozen earth beneath her, she wondered how they could be so hard to find.

  She could have sworn she saw exactly where they dropped. And now they were gone.

  What was Morris doing to those poor, poor children as she searched?

  *

  Miranda didn’t need any psychic antenna to tell her what was going to happen to her next. The guy stood over her: a black silhouette framed by the bare light bulb above his head.

  Don’t do this. Please. She tried sending the thought to him telepathically, hoping he’d pick it up, or at least pick up the despair in her eyes. Another prediction: there was nothing she could say to make him stop throwing the fluttering shreds of cloth over her.

  Gasoline fumes filled the basement. Miranda wriggled around when the cold liquid splashed over her, screamed beneath the duct tape. Panic took over; she could barely breathe.

  Oh, God, why do I have to die this way?

  *

  Richard had opened the door. Before him, rickety wooden stairs led down to a basement. All he could see at the bottom was a harshly lit cinder-block wall painted grey. Below, he could hear muffled cries and a soft giggle.

  The sounds made him want to turn and run. But if he didn’t do this, he didn’t know how he’d ever make it through his life, didn’t know how he’d ever stand up in front of a congregation and say Mass.

  Didn’t know how he would ever bow his head in prayer again and feel worthy.

  Richard put one foot on the top step, gingerly letting his weight down, hoping the step wouldn’t creak.

/>   It was silent.

  The odor of gasoline rose up from the basement like a wave, almost making him gag.

  He flattened himself against the wall at the side, wondering, What am I going to do?

  *

  “Avery, sweet Avery, my little helper.”

  Dwight had tenderly bound Avery’s wrists and ankles, gently pressed the duct tape to his face.

  The pain in Avery’s shoulder grew with every passing moment.

  He wished Dwight would just light a match and have it over with. He was tired of suffering; his fate was now hopeless. Who knew where any of them were?

  Who cared?

  Dwight squatted down beside Avery’s box and ran his fingers through Avery’s hair.

  Avery squirmed to escape the man’s touch.

  Dwight stood suddenly, wiping his hand on his pants. “You’re just like all the rest. I thought for a minute you were different.” He paused to pick up an armload of rags. “But only for a minute. You deserve this.” He flung the rags down over Avery, loosely covering him.

  Avery closed his eyes when the first splash of gasoline hit him.

  *

  Alice Martin sat back on her haunches, gripping the keys in her hands. “Thank you, God,” she whispered. She got to her feet and pressed the key into the lock.

  *

  Dwight looked over at the last box. “Jimmy,” he whispered. “I’ve finally got you right where I want you.”

  Dwight wanted to relish this moment, make it last as long as possible.

  He conjured up an image: a runner of flame spiriting itself along a wall in the spare bedroom upstairs. He conjured up a feeling: the scorching heat of that same flame, like some vengeful angel, racing its way up his robe…

  The little cocksucker could have killed him that night. But Dwight was too smart to be bested by that puny flame…it was merely a distraction.

  But tonight’s flame…ah, yes. There would be nothing puny about it. No one would survive.

  Such an explosion that remains wouldn’t even exist.

  And even if they did, he would be long gone from Chicago, starting up a new life somewhere else. Somewhere small maybe, where the temptations of the streets wouldn’t assail him and he could be a normal man once more.

  “I can be a normal guy,” he said, “without you pieces of shit around to tempt me.”

  He walked over to Jimmy’s box and flung the top off. The boy cowered inside, trembling. Good. The boy had finally learned a little fear.

  Too bad it was too late. “Too late for this life, anyway,” Dwight said to himself.

  Sweating, his eyes wide, Jimmy pleaded. “Please don’t do this, man. It’s crazy. You’ll go to jail.”

  “What do you care, my lad?” Dwight smiled at the boy. “You’ll be dead.”

  *

  Richard had moved down the basement stairs enough to peer from the handrail and see Dwight standing over a long row of boxes.

  At this moment, there was too much horror and Richard couldn’t seem to sort it all out. He knew what the boxes were for, but couldn’t consider it.

  The shock of all this made the scene appear bizarrely normal.

  But the gun in Dwight’s hand stood out as a threat. If Dwight saw him, Dwight would kill him.

  Richard reached into his shirt and clutched the gold crucifix that hung around his neck. Whispering a quick petition for help, he began to move slowly, silently down the stairs.

  He had no idea what he’d do when he got to Dwight Morris.

  Perhaps instead of asking for help I should he whispering the words to the rite of extreme unction.

  * * *

  Jimmy knew it was his only chance. But he didn’t know if he could pull it off, didn’t know if he could find the strength to put away his fear long enough to make a difference.

  His first thought was to jump out of the box and try to wrestle the gun away from Dwight. He was smart enough to realize Dwight had about forty pounds and several inches on him; there probably wouldn’t have been much of a fight. And maybe if I hadn’t been through all I have, I’d be in better shape to give this guy some sort of challenge.

  Jimmy thought about tricks in the past and how he’d always managed to keep the upper hand with most of them.

  Dwight smiled down at him. “Don’t think, in these last moments, that any of this is my fault. You brought this all on yourself. And, in a way, it’s a good thing.” Dwight leaned closer. “Don’t you want to go to heaven, boy? Don’t you realize it’s me that’s gonna get you there?”

  Jimmy licked his lips and tried to make his breathing normal, tried to quell the trembling in his limbs. Jimmy didn’t know what was scarier: the guy’s words or the fact that he actually believed what he was saying. He was grateful Dwight hadn’t yet bound him, like he had the others.

  “I know,” he said. “I shouldn’t have treated you that way.”

  Dwight threw back his head and laughed, filling the basement with a high-pitched giggling that made Jimmy want to scream.

  Keep cool, keep cool, it’s your only chance.

  Dwight said, “Don’t try to pull this act of contrition with me now, boy. How dumb do you think I am? You’ll be sorry, I’m sure. But your sorrow, your contrition, can only be brought about by real pain.” Dwight smiled. “The pain and despair born of death.”

  Jimmy tried to appear earnest. “Hey, I ain’t doin’ nothin’ like that. I was just remembering that other time and that thing you did, with your hand…”

  Dwight snorted, “You mean fisting?”

  “I guess that’s what—”

  “Don’t play innocent with me.” Dwight’s face had become a mask of disgust as he knelt down by the box and took Jimmy’s wrists in his hands. He held them together with one hand while he reached for some rope with the other.

  “I’m not, man. It’s just that…well, I liked it. Once I thought about it.”

  Dwight leaned back on his haunches, putting down the rope and picking up the gun once more. He aimed it at Jimmy.

  Jimmy stared into the barrel, wondering what the flash would look like if he fired.

  “I ought to shove this up your ass, my fine boy.”

  “Do it, then, I’ll let you.” Jimmy unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, wriggled so that they were around his knees. “Do you want to?”

  Dwight shook his head. “Jesus Christ, you’re the sickest one of them all, aren’t you?”

  Jimmy could see from his expression that the man was interested, and it was just the opening he was hoping for. “C’mon, I think you want to do it, too.” Jimmy pulled his pants down farther and finally reached down and took them off. He lifted his legs up so that his knees were almost touching his ears.

  “Vile slut, sick thing,” Dwight whispered. But he couldn’t take his eyes away from Jimmy’s naked flesh. His breathing came heavier.

  Jimmy was well acquainted with the signs of lust.

  He wriggled his ass in a slow-motion come-on. Dwight leaned closer, one hand gripping the side of the box, knuckles white, the other holding the gun out, pointing it at Jimmy.

  The hand holding the gun trembled as Dwight mumbled, “C’mon, boy, pray with me.”

  “Just touch me,” Jimmy whispered in a close approximation of desire.

  Dwight reached out and stroked Jimmy’s smooth bottom. He pulled back. “This is crazy. I have work to do.”

  “Put…the…gun…in…me.” Jimmy lifted his hand slowly toward Dwight’s hand, the one holding the gun. “It’ll be a trip.”

  Jimmy’s skin connected with Dwight’s; he wrapped his fingers around Dwight’s wrist.

  And dug his nails into the tender flesh around Dwight’s pulse point.

  The gun fell to his chest, hitting hard with a dull, thudding sound. Jimmy grabbed it with his left hand, screamed, “You fucker,” pointed the gun at Dwight, and fired.

  *

  Alice punched in 911 on her ph
one. When the dispatcher came on the line, Alice said, “Oh, thank God. Thank God.”

  *

  Richard jumped when the gun went off. Its report was deafening, the sound ricocheting off the cinder-block walls. He was ashamed of himself for being so transfixed by the scene that he had done nothing to help.

  But the gun firing broke his stasis. Richard hurried down the steps as Dwight, screaming, jumped back and away from the box.

  He didn’t even seem to see Richard moving quickly across the basement. Richard stopped at one point when he saw the little room with the Coleman ice chest and the rope hanging down. Then he looked up and was seized with inspiration. Perhaps the answer to all of this was there. If only I could get it down quickly enough.

  His thoughts were interrupted as Dwight reeled forward, pitching himself inside the box where Jimmy lay. Dwight being inside the box gave Richard the break he needed and he bounded across the basement, rushing to the partitioned-off area. “Please give me the strength,” he pleaded in a voice that was barely a whisper.

  * * *

  Jimmy grunted as Dwight’s full weight came down on him. The guy’s head slammed into his and suddenly Dwight had sunk his teeth into Jimmy’s cheek. The weight of the man pinned his hand—the one holding the gun—to his chest.

  Why did I have to miss? Jimmy thought.

  He couldn’t move. Dwight’s weight was crushing him as Jimmy tried to turn, tried with everything he had to pull his hand free but couldn’t. Dwight let go of Jimmy’s cheek and wriggled to bring his hands up to Jimmy’s neck.

  What do I have to lose? Jimmy thought. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger, hoping it would go into Dwight and not himself.

  Dwight jerked and gasped. Jimmy felt a sudden rush of warmth at his stomach. Dwight’s blood?

  But now Dwight had managed to free one of his hands and all of the sudden it was around his neck, gripping, squeezing, cutting off his air, like the talon of some huge bird, ripping.

  Darkness swam before him and he thought: I was so close. It’s not fair. I came so close. Jimmy squeezed the trigger again, his hand already sticky with Dwight’s blood.

  And nothing happened. The bullets were gone.

  He felt himself going limp under the weight of the man, not sure he’d even be able to move if he could get his hand free.