Why had it been so hard for him to realize all of this? Why had he forced her to shove him into the closet and endured days in the darkness as he thought about his sins? He remembered huddling in the corner with the smell of piss and shit so thick in the confined space that he could taste it with every breath. Hearing the mice scuttling and scratching within the walls, feeling their rough, cold tails trail over his bare flesh as he shivered and tried to pull himself into as tiny of a ball as possible. Sometimes, when the blood was still fresh and they were exceptionally hungry, they’d nip at his open wounds and pull away jagged little pieces of flesh. They’d gnaw on his hair when he was curled on the floor asleep, would cover his body with tiny scratches as their feet scrambled over him.
And if it wasn’t the mice, then it was the roaches. Or the spiders. Or any of the thousand other creatures his mind imagined to be sharing a space that was as cramped and dark as a coffin stood on end. And all the while, Mama’s voice would whisper through the keyhole at random intervals.
“Worthless little piece of shit.”
“Sissy boy . . . .”
“Can’t even bleed right.”
But all that now seemed like it’d happened to someone else. As if the real Daryl had been hidden away somewhere in the back of that frightened little boy’s mind, waiting for the day he could emerge and lay claim to the bruised and battered body. And all it would take was one swing of the tire iron for him to emerge victorious.
The cop had finally managed to slip the cuff around Earl’s other wrist and Daryl was close enough now to hear his labored breathing as the man gasped out lines he knew so well that he probably muttered them in his sleep.
“You have the right . . . to remain . . . silent.”
Daryl squeezed the cold metal in his hand and the solidity of the bar made him feel as strong and invincible as the giant in his dreams.
“Anything you say and . . . and will . . . be used against you in a court of law.”
His shadow fell over the officer’s back like a death shroud.
“You have the right to an attorney . . . .”
So close that he could see the individual pores on the back of the man’s neck and catch the whiffs of cologne that wafted in the air. He saw the gold band encircling the man’s ring finger, the dark arches of dark crud trapped beneath his fingernails.
“If you cannot afford one . . .”
Daryl pulled the tire tool back like a tennis pro preparing to lob a ball over a net. As he did so, the arm of his shadow extended over the cop’s shoulder, silhouetting the raised weapon perfectly against the trampled blanket of white snow.
Moving so quickly that he was nothing more than a blur, the cop rolled to the left. At some point, his right hand dropped to his hip and he sprang into a crouch.
Face to face with the enemy, Daryl stood as if every muscle in his body had crystallized. He stared into two eyes that were like shattered chips of ice and, for some reason, noticed how flakes of snow clung to the stubble on the cop’s square chin.
“Drop it!”
Mostly, however, Daryl noticed the dark, wide bore of the pistol pointed directly at the center of his head.
“Drop it now!”
And there in the middle of a snow-covered road with pendulous clouds overhead, the Daryl who’d been struggling to emerge from the scarred trappings of his childhood died.
SCENE TWELVE
Matt’s hand shot up like a flesh-covered jack in the box. His fingers wrapped around Mary’s slender wrist and squeezed until he could feel the delicate bones grind against one another; but still the old woman refused to relinquish her grip on the knife. Instead, she threw herself forward, pressing the entire weight of her body upon the man’s arms. With teeth clamped in a jaw tightening display of determination, he pushed back in an attempt to keep the sharp point from plunging into his chest.
The old woman was stronger than she looked and the muscles in Matt’s arms quivered beneath the strain of her ferocity. He twisted and bucked, but she straddled him like a psychotic lover. Her groin ground against the sickening flares of pain radiating from his testicles and her tits swayed over him like two low-hanging condoms that had been partially filled with water. Not wasting their energy on words, the sounds of battle erupted in pig-like grunts, low growls that rolled from the back of the throat, and occasional snorts of expelled air.
With eyes locked upon one another, they vied for dominance. Each studied the other’s face for the smallest flicker of doubt or hesitation. For that was what it would truly take: a fraction of a second where one combatant lowered his or her guard; or a distraction that passed more quickly than the eye could blink. One slip up and it would all be over . . . . The only question remaining was which of the two would falter first.
Even though the logs in the fireplace had been reduced to nothing more than glowing cinders and ash, the pair had fallen so close to the stone hearth that radiant heat, combined with intensity of their grappling, coaxed sweat from their pores. The air surrounding them was thick with the sharp tang of body odor and Mary felt the handle of the knife become increasingly slick in her hand. If it had been wood, or even textured, it would have been an entirely different story. But she’d had this paring knife since she was a new bride and it had been constructed to stand the test of time. Forged from a single piece of steel, the handle warmed quickly even under the best of circumstances; but, in this current situation, it felt as hot as if it had been lying on the bed of coals at their side. The perspiration on her palms was like oil and it took almost all of her concentration to keep it from slipping from her moist fingers.
This apparent disadvantage, however, was offset by the fact that Mary’s wrists also glistened with a sheen of sweat; it, too, acted as a lubricant and keeping his grip on her was becoming as difficult as holding onto a freshly caught fish.
Something had to give . . . within minutes, the fate of the battle would be decided.
Mary was so focused on Matt’s grimace that it took a moment for her to realize that the blurry patch of white that had manifested in front of her face was actually the flesh of a slender arm. At the end of this out of focus appendage something glistened as it sped toward her face; at the same time, she felt hot breath tickle her ear as a voice whispered from behind.
“Mary Gruber . . . .”
The narrow blade of the Exacto knife sliced into Mary’s eyeball as if it were nothing more than a peeled grape. The pulp was left with a jagged, paper-thin fissure as the tip cut through the wet orb with a squish. Simultaneously, Matt forced the old woman’s hand backward. At first it felt as though the radius and ulna were as rubbery as drumsticks that had been soaked in vinegar. But the hesitation was only brief; it was quickly followed by a dry snapping noise that was drown out by the screeches that erupted from the woman’s spindly throat.
The knife clattered from her hand as she wrenched out of Matt’s grasp. Pressing her palm against her severed retina, she doubled over as if she were about to throw up. Without hesitation, Mona slashed again. This time, the blade sliced through Mary’s eyelid and the old woman twisted like a cat that had just been plunged in boiling water. Her screams echoed through the house and her eyelid dangled against her cheek, swinging like a pendulum with each thrash of her body.
With a giggle, Mona flicked her wrist again and Mary now pressed both hands against her useless eyes as blood and viscous fluid oozed through her fingers. Through shrieks so shrill and loud that they seemed to rip at her vocal chords, Mary could barely hear Mona’s voice. It was a lilting sing-song that drifted in and out of the searing pain that burned in her eyes.
“I spy, with my little eye, something that is red . . . .”
Mona laid the Exacto knife on the wooden mantle above the fireplace and paced around the old woman’s body. Mary had fallen entirely to the floor now with her knees pulled practically up to her chest. She rolled back and forth and smacked her head against the floor as if she could somehow beat the agony out of he
r own face. With every thud, droplets of blood flung from her gore covered hands and the old woman’s voice now sounded thin and raspy as she screamed, as if her voice were beginning to give out.
“You fucked with the wrong people this time, old woman. We were going to let you live. Because you helped us. Can you believe that? We were really going to let you live.”
Mona inspected the wrought iron tools that jutted out of a brass vase near the edge of the fireplace. Picking up what looked like a miniature hoe, she turned it over in her hands like an antique expert examining a rare piece.
“But now look at you. Oops . . . “
Mona turned her head and giggled again as she returned the fireplace tool to the fold.
“I forgot. You can’t look, can you? What’s the matter, Mary? Got something in your eyes?”
Selecting another tool from the cluster, Mona smiled. This one was long and slender with a spear-like tip. Just before the end, a nasty little hook curved away from the black metal and something about it reminded her of a hornet’s stinger. She lifted the tool up and down, as if testing its weight, and cleared the bangs from her eyes with a shake of the head.
“Bitch.”
Mary’s voice was nothing more than a hiss between clenched teeth and the tightening of muscles required for talking sent fresh spasms of pain tearing through her eyes. The word, however, caused the cold grin to fade from Mona’s mouth and her lips pursed as her pupils dialated.
“Now, that’s not very nice.”
She swung the fire poker like a golf pro and the metal whacked against Mary’s side with a thud. The old woman howled in pain and pulled herself into an even tighter ball as she struggled to make herself as small of a target as possible.
“Lots of people used to call me that.”
The poker whooshed through the air again and there was a sharp crack as ribs splintered at the point of impact.
“No one calls me that anymore.”
Mona swung again and the little hook at the end of the poker snagged Mary’s dress. It ripped through the fabric as easily as the Exacto had her eye, leaving a long ribbon that fluttered like a banner from the end of the tool.
“No one!”
With the next swing, the hook tore through exposed skin, leaving a short gash that quickly welled with blood. Mary was howling now and she tried to inch away from the younger woman like a worm, but Mona followed quickly, swinging the poker again and again. The flat smacking noise of iron on flesh was as steady as the beat of a bass drum and the old woman’s skin had begun to swell with green and purple bruises.
“No . . . please . . . stop . . . .”
Clenching a handful of gray hair, Mona snatched the old woman back so viscously that clumps of scalp were still attached to the wisps of hair in her fist when she finally let go. The old woman fell backward and thudded against the floor and Mona pounced upon her before she had a chance to roll over again. With her knees pinning Mary’s shoulder blades, Mona looked at the blood and pus-like fluid that streaked her wrinkled face.
“Why Grandma,” she gasped, “what big eyes you have . . . .”
The younger woman formed a circle with her index finger and thumb as if she were signaling that everything was going to be okay. Leaning forward, however, she flicked her fingernail against the pulpy hemorrhage that bulged from Mary’s tortured eye socket. Fresh screams undulated as the old woman thrashed her head as if vigorously saying no and Mona winced with each ear-piercing screech
“And what a big fucking mouth you have, too.”
Snatching something that looked like a small shovel from the vase of tools, Mona plunged it’s flat head into the cinders. When she drew it out again, a mound of flickering coals was piled onto the little shovel and she watched for a second as the yellow and red glow pulsed like slow motion strobe lights.
“Maybe this will shut you up.”
Mona tilted the shovel and the embers fell like a shower of sparks into Mary’s open mouth. They hissed like snakes as spit instantly evaporated and curls of smoke carried the stench of burnt flesh from the old woman’s mouth. Her lips were blistered and swollen and she half-spar, half-coughed the nuggets of fire onto the living room floor.
Standing, Mona walked to the sofa and plopped down. She watched as the old lady pulled herself blindly across the room and occasionally laughed when Mary’s arms gave out and caused her to collapse to the floor. She whimpered as she crawled and Mona imagined the singed lining of her throat slowly closing up as the damaged flesh swelled. How long would it take before the airway was completely closed? Five minutes? Ten?
The old woman had drug her sorry carcass almost entirely out of the living room by the time Mona grew bored and began thumbing threw the pages of a catalog. While the younger woman looked at pictures of gardening tools and seeds, Mary continued to pull herself along. Her voice was nothing more than a wheeze now and a series of bloody hand prints marked her trail. Reaching out into the darkness that had become her world, her shaking hands felt fabric. She gripped it tightly and began to pull herself up, thinking that if she could just manage to walk maybe she could make it to the kitchen. Maybe she could somehow figure out how to dial 911. Though she wouldn’t be able to talk, they would trace the call and . . . .
A pair of strong hands cupped her armpits and lifted her to her feet. She felt like crying as her unseen Samaritan assisted her but the throbbing masses that were her eyes didn’t seem capable of producing tears anymore. Instead, she laid her cheek against the broad, solid chest and allowed her weight to fall forward, trusting this man to continue giving support.
“Shhhhh . . . .”
The voice in her ear was soft and soothing and she felt hands stroke her hair.
“Shhhh. Everything’s going to be fine. It won’t hurt forever. I promise.”
Matt was framed against an open door that led down into the cellar and he looked over the old woman’s trembling head at his wife. Glancing up from the catalog, Mona smiled and winked at him as she jiggled her breasts like a go-go dancer. Shaking his head slowly, Matt suppressed a laugh before turning his attentions back to the injured woman in his arms. He felt, rather than heard, the wet gurgle that bubbled in her throat and her hands gripped his shirt as if it were the only thing anchoring her to life.
“It won’t hurt forever . . . .”
Mary gasped as her own paring knife sliced into her gut. The pain traveled quickly in an arch, almost as if a smile were being carved into her gut. She pulled away from the man and wrapped her arms around her belly as if she could keep the wet, slippery organs from spilling through the gash. There was another flash of pain as Matt rammed the knife into her upper abdomen. Buried entirely up to the hilt, the knife stuck out of her body like some bizarre handle and scraped at the edges of bone that it was wedged between. Staggering backwards, she felt the hands again. On her shoulders this time. They yanked her around so roughly that her teeth snapped against one another and then she was pushed backward again.
The old woman toppled over the stairs with her arms pinwheeling in the air and Matt felt the house shake as her body bounced and rolled down each step. After a few seconds of this, there was a final thump as her body struck the concrete floor of the cellar. The door above then creaked shut, leaving Mary Gruber to die alone and in the dark.
SCENE THIRTEEN
The pages of the scrapbook appeared in Daryl’s mind like rapid-fire recollections of a nightmare. He saw Mona with her dark hair and cherubic face, looking absolutely gorgeous in a tight, black tee shirt that clung to the curves of her breasts as if the fabric itself wanted nothing more than to fondle them; wearing red lipstick, she smiled for the camera as she held the head of a bearded man as if it were a trophy. His eyes were wide and round, his mouth opened in a silent scream, and the cut along his severed neck as clean as if it had been taken off with a single blow. In the same cursive script that had spelled out Mona’s Secret Delights were the words Frankfurt, Kentucky. Another page, this one labeled Ro
ck Hill, SC: the living room of what appeared to be a middle class suburban home, a woman tied and gagged, kneeling in front of a wall splattered with blood as Mona held a pistol to the side of her head. Locks of blood-matted hair taped to pages, newspaper articles detailing brutal slayings, and pieces of road map with bright blue Xs that marked the towns where each snapshot had been taken. Entire families lined side by side, men and women who were either dead or about to die, drivers licenses, Matt in the woods and holding a rifle with his foot propped on some fat guy as if he were a big game hunter who’d just taken down the trophy of a lifetime. One page even containing a blood splattered letter, this one written in a shaky scrawl:
I am about to die and this is a testament of my sins. I slept with my wife’s sister and stold money from work. I once paid a hooker fifty dollars for a blow job, beat her up afterwards, and took my money back. I am not worthy of life . . . .
Page after page of violence, bloodshed and death. Picture after picture of Mona and Matt looking smug, happy, even one with the bare-chested woman glaring seductively at the camera as she straddled a business man whose tie had been cinched so tightly around his neck that the flesh overlapped the black silk.
And these monsters were with Mama. Alone in the house.
Daryl knew they were tied up, that there was a good chance they were even still knocked out. But that didn’t stop the fear from gripping his stomach as securely as that dead man’s necktie. What if they somehow got loose? What if Mama found herself face to face with these butchers? What then?
True, they weren’t exactly angels themselves. But somehow, for reasons Daryl couldn’t quite put into words, what they did was different. And by the time Mama had her chance to play with the things they brought home, Earl and Daryl had always made sure there was no chance that she could possibly be in harm’s way. There were the ropes, the nails, the handcuffs, and leather straps. But those had always been normal people. They were shop clerks, drifters, and housewives . . . not psychotic thugs who, judging from the pictures in the scrapbook, didn’t have an ounce of compassion in their cold, dark hearts.
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