by J. Thorn
Her mind skips to this scene:
She is still dressed, but tied to the stake. She screams against the oil-stained gag as the man she will later attack with the wooden spur laughs through his teeth and pulls the ring from her navel, then holds it up to show her. There is a little speck of her skin still attached. And as he brings it close, she recalls the courage it took to get it done, and the complete absence of that same courage every time she thought of having to show it to her mother.
Then back to the carefree wanderers: Daniel and Stu walking ahead on the shaded road, trading memories of the last drunken night in Sandestin and chuckling while the canopies of oak leaves allowed golden pools of sun to warm their backs, Katy and Claire following, Katy strangely quiet. Bug spray doesn't dissuade the clouds of mosquitos that hang around them like stars around the moon.
Are you worried? Claire asks her friend when the guys are far enough ahead of them.
About what?
I don't know. You're not saying much.
Katy shrugs, smiles just a little. Just thinking. About us.
You and me? Or...
Yeah, Katy replies. Or.
He seems to be all right, Claire tells her, with a nod in Stu's direction. You don't think so?
Another shrug. Seems to be is exactly the point. He hasn't said a thing. Not a damn thing.
Maybe that's for the best. Maybe it's his way of letting you know it's over and done with, water under the bridge.
Katy looks at her then. If you cheated on Danny, you think you'd take him being quiet as forgiveness?
In the dream, before Claire gets a chance to answer, a disembodied hand appears before Katy, dirt under its nails, grime covering the skin, as it drives a rusted metal spike upward, penetrating the soft skin underneath her friend's chin. Blood spurts, Katy's eyes widen in horror, but she keeps talking, keeps trying to explain why she did what she did, why she betrayed her boyfriend with someone she had no feelings for, but the words keep getting harder and harder to get out as the spike appears inside her mouth, still traveling upward, puncturing her tongue and driving it toward the roof of her mouth. And now Katy is speaking as if she has never learned the right way to do it, as if she's been deaf since birth and will never be sure if the words are produced the right way. I...hink...I wanhed...to...hurt him...buh I hon't knowww why...Then, as the spike continues its passage through her skull, Katy's eyes roll and bulge, begin to leak blood.
Claire screams.
Ahead of her, in the middle of the road, Daniel and Stu turn, but the movement is not theirs. They are tied to stakes driven deep into the crumbling asphalt, their hands bound behind them, and when they turn, it is at the behest of the wind, as if they are little more than extravagant weathervanes. They are both naked. The skin has been removed from Daniel's face; Stu's head is gone, severed at the neck. And yet, somehow they continue to speak, permitted by the skewed logic of dreams to say what they once said in life.
We should have just driven, Stu says. Why the fuck would anyone want to walk in this heat?
You're missing the point, man, Daniel tells him. Everybody drives everywhere. Unless you're willing to spend a fortune on some goddamn guided trail in the Rockies, your options are limited. We got where we needed to go, had our fun, now it's time to get back to nature, see things as people used to see them. It could be our last summer together, so why not draw it out a little?
You're a fruit, you know that?
Maybe, but you'll thank me later. We're going to see things no tourist ever sees.
Claire looks away. The light fades. She is no longer on the road, but back in the woodshed that smells of waste matter, of blood and decay and sweat and oil. There is a window in the wall to her left that she does not recall ever seeing. Through the dirty glass Daniel stands there, once more dressed, his face returned to him but wearing a somber expression as he looks in her direction.
And, I'm losing him, she thinks, as she thought earlier that day. Things are changing. We both feel it. I'm losing him.
She opens her mouth to call out to him, to plead with him to save her, to save them both, but her words are obliterated by the filthy probing fingers that have found their way inside, forcing her to look away from the window and into the face of her nightmare.
Here she wakes, the smell of blood and dirt clinging to her, and she thrashes against it, against the arms that appear to hold her down, to tell her that everything will be okay, that she's safe now.
But she isn't, and she knows it. The killers may be gone, but they have planted something inside her with their fingers, their tongues, and their cocks. She feels it all the time now and its getting worse, drawing nourishment from her, waiting until she relaxes, believes those who are telling her there is nothing left to fear before it claws its way out of her to prove them wrong.
*
"Claire?"
"Yes."
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where you are?"
"Hospital."
"That's right. You know why?"
She nodded, slowly, but still refused to turn her myopic gaze on the man sitting in a chair to the left of the bed. With him came an air of importance, authority. Police, she suspected.
"Can you look at me, Claire?"
She ignored him.
"My name is Sheriff Todd. Marshall Todd. I'm with the state police."
"Hi Sheriff Todd Marshall Todd," she said, and the policeman laughed, but it was practiced laughter, a preprogrammed response, the slush left behind by the icebreaker. His voice sounded gritty, worn, and she guessed he wasn't a young man.
"Let's just keep it to Marshall then, okay?"
He was trying to be friendly with her, keeping his tone light, but behind it she could sense his impatience to unburden himself of something. Perhaps he wasn't sure how much she knew, how much of the horror she had seen before she got away. And she wondered how much she could stand to hear. She knew a considerable amount of time had passed. It had felt like years, but the last time she'd been fully awake, the kindly patrician doctor had told her it had been over nine weeks. Countless times over that long stretch of terrible nights and days marked by pain, she'd imagined a convoy of police cruisers cars kicking up dirt, overseen by black helicopters, doors being thrust open, voices shouting as men wearing mirrored shades ran toward a sagging house, guns drawn. She imagined the media helicopters whirling above the organized calamity, flashing lights and camera lights as dirty men in overalls were led out in handcuffs squinting up, then out at a crowd of men and women who were eager to be at them for different reasons. Some just wanted the scoop; others to see the face of pure evil for themselves; and then there were those among them, the quieter ones, who wanted nothing more than ten minutes alone in a dark room with these depraved monsters.
And none of it would bring her friends back.
"How are you feelin'?" Marshall asked.
"Tired. Sore."
"Doctor Newell says you might be able to check out by the weekend. I'll bet you're anxious to be home with your family again."
"Yes," she replied, but wasn't entirely sure that was true. She dreaded the thought of what awaited her outside of this place—the reserves of energy she would be required to draw upon to satisfy the concern and curiosity of her well-wishers, the ill-concealed looks of resentment and accusation she expected to see in the eyes of the her friends' parents, the ones who had no child to welcome home. She was safe from the men now, for however long, their power over her limited to dreams and the occasional waking nightmare, but little could protect her from the maelstrom of emotions that would come crashing down upon her as soon as she stepped foot outside this place. The mere thought of it exhausted her, made her want to cry.
"Well," the Sheriff said. "Your Mom and sister are eager to see you. They've been stayin' in a motel close by, checkin' in on you often as they can."
Claire exhaled. She recalled their visits, how relieved she had been to see her mo
ther and Kara, the agony reflected in their faces, the uncertainty of not knowing for sure how much she had suffered, and unprepared to accept any of it. But she was alive, and in their eyes had glimmered the joy of that simple undeniable truth. She was alive, back with them, when so many others had perished.
"Is there anythin' you need?"
"I'm fine."
"Okay. I just wanted to have a little talk with you today, check on your progress, make sure you ain't wantin' for nothin'."
She nodded slightly, her bandages chafing against the pillow. "Thank you."
"And I wanted to let you know that the man who did this to you and your friends is dead. Not how we'd have wished for it to go, but I'm guessin' he's facin' justice of another kind now."
She started to respond, then stopped. Surely she'd misheard. The man who did this...
"What did you say?" she asked, and finally looked directly at him. She saw she'd been right; he was old, his hat resting on his lap, held there by thin wrinkled fingers. He had a generous head of gray hair, which the hat had all but tempered flat against his skull, and kind brown eyes, which seemed designed for sympathy. His face was lean, and deep wrinkles ran from the corners of his mouth down past his chin.
He leaned forward a little. "How much do you remember?"
She stared at him for a long moment, then licked her lips. "I remember what happened, what they did to us. I remember getting away, but not much more." Her eye widened as a fragment of memory returned, though she wasn't sure how reliable it might be. "There was a guy, about my age, maybe a little younger, a black kid. His name was..." She struggled to pluck the memory from the swamp her mind had become. "Pete. That was it. I was in the truck with him."
Marshall nodded. "Pete, that's right. Pete Lowell."
"Is he here?"
"'Fraid not. He took off soon's he brought you in and saw you were in good hands. We sent a patrol car out to bring him back, but turned up nothin'. We found his house burned up though, and his daddy..." He waved a hand. "We can talk about all that some other time."
Claire planted her hands on the mattress and started to ease herself into a sitting position. Immediately her body became a combat zone, the pain exploding in various parts of her, a stern reminder that she was not yet fit enough to be attempting such hasty and ambitious movements. She squinted against the discomfort and when next she looked, Marshall was at her side, strong hands beneath her armpits, pulling her up as she dug her heels into the bed and pushed to assist him. "Easy. Hold on now," he said, and arranged the pillows so that she could lay back. She did, out of breath, her body humming with the exertion. Her joints were stiff and stubborn, her skin taut like dried leather. She was perspiring and when she raised her left hand to wipe her brow, she saw the source of at least some of the pain. It was missing two fingers—the pinky and the ring finger, and where they'd been nothing remained but twin half-inch nubs of smooth flesh. Staring in a kind of grim disassociated fashion, she withdrew her right hand from beneath the covers, and released a breath, relieved to see that aside from some angry looking pink scars, possibly self-inflicted during her escape, it was not mutilated. She raised her watery gaze to the Sheriff, who wore the expression of a man suddenly very much aware of the limitations of his job.
"You're gonna be fine. All kinds of surgery nowadays can fix you right up good as new," he said softly, but it was a weak effort at consolation and they both knew it. It wouldn't matter if they found her fingers, or her eye lying in a ditch somewhere, remarkably preserved, and sewed them back. It wouldn't matter if between now and her time of discharge they discovered a cure for rape, a way to give a sexually abused woman back her dignity, and in Claire's case, her virginity, the fact was that the violence had been done, its impact irreversible, and some vital part of her had been destroyed in the process, a part of her she hadn't known existed until it was stolen. Her friends were dead and gone, brutally tugged from life. Nothing they could do for Claire would repair that horrifying reality, or fill that dark gaping rent in her world and the worlds of their families.
Dark spots speckled her vision and she had to take a moment to steady herself, to anchor her consciousness. When at last her vision settled, she said to the Sheriff, "You said 'the man who did this is dead'. Who were you talking about?"
"Garrett Wellman."
Claire shook her head and frowned. "Doctor Wellman?"
"He was the town doctor, yes, or as near as they had to one. Some of the folks in Elkwood said he always seemed real nice, but started keepin' to himself after his wife passed on. Cancer. She didn't go quietly they say, and after her funeral, Wellman all but shut himself up in his house just outside of town. Took to drinkin' hard. No one knew what he got up to out there all by himself. Looks like it weren't anythin' good."
"Sheriff—"
"When we got there, he'd burned the place down around himself."
"Sheriff, listen to me. More than one man attacked us. There were at least three, and they were young, the oldest about eighteen, maybe, and the youngest not more than eleven or twelve. You've got this all wrong. Wellman helped me."
He smiled uncertainly. "We found remains, Claire. Your friends. In Wellman's basement. And he had access to all kind of—"
Claire stopped listening. She felt that old familiar panic rising in her chest. If there had been some kind of mistake, if the authorities were pinning this on the wrong man as it seemed they had, it meant the real murderers were still out there and the police weren't even looking for them.
But maybe they'll be looking for me.
Suddenly, the room began to tilt, the dark spots returning, bigger now, like black holes in her vision. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room and began to reach toward the ceiling, dimming the light. Nausea whirled through her. "Oh God..."
"Claire?" Marshall put out a hand to her.
Imagination gave it a knife.
"Oh G—" She turned away from him and vomited over the side of the bed.
-14-
"Goddamn it, Ty. Keep your hands to yourself."
The three workmen in the booth grinned at the fourth, an overweight black man in a padded check shirt and worn navy baseball cap with an M embroidered in the middle. Beneath it, Ty Rogers's broad face settled into one of apology though his large yellow teeth were bared in a grin as he raised his sap-stained hands in a gesture of placation.
"Not my fault, Louise. You keep shaking that fine ass in our faces every time you walk away."
Louise tucked the pencil she'd used to jot down the men's orders into the breast pocket of her pink and white striped shirt and folded her arms.
"Wouldn't mind being that pencil," another of the men muttered and his coworkers sniggered.
Louise, more tired than offended, glared at each of them in turn, until only Ty was looking at her directly.
"Maybe I should give your wife a call," she said, and at his nonchalant shrug, addressed the rest of them. "All of your wives. I'm sure they'd be real interested to hear what you boys get up to on your lunch break."
Ty pouted. It made her want to slap him.
"Aw c'mon now, girl. We were just playing witcha. You should be flattered. I mean, look at the rest of the girls in here." He nodded pointedly toward the counter where the other waitresses, Yvonne and Marcia, hugely overweight and looking forever unhappy about it, scowled over steaming plates of homemade fries, hash, eggs and sausage. In the warming light above the stainless steel counter, they looked like operatic villains.
"Flattered? I should punch you in your fat head," Louise told him and the men erupted into laughter. But Ty's smile faded, just a little. It was enough for Louise to see that she'd gotten to him, hit him where he didn't like to be hit, especially not in front of his friends. Though she'd seen him in here almost every day over the past month, had weathered his innuendo, crude passes, and vulgarity and thought him a pig, she hadn't been afforded this intimate glimpse of the man he most likely was at home. Dirty, abusive. Worse than a pig, she t
hought. A pig with a violent streak. She was more than familiar with the type.
"Talk like that," he said, "I should put you over my knee."
"With knees like yours, you could put me and everyone else in here on 'em and there'd still be room for a grand piano."
Ty's smile didn't drop any further, but it was frozen in place, as if the muscles responsible for relaxing it had gone into arrest.
"Got an awful smart mouth on you," he said coldly.
"And you got awfully twitchy hands. Keep 'em to yourself from now on you won't have to listen to my smart mouth or any other." She gave him a final withering look, then went to put in their order. Behind her she sensed the man's icy stare, but it wasn't hard to ignore. He could glare and grumble all he wanted and it would never bother her. She had bigger problems, and as The Overrail Diner was her sole solace from a life gone bad, not to mention her only source of income, she was more than willing to deal with whatever took place within its plate glass walls and acoustic-tile ceilings.
She reached the counter, ripped the order free and slid it across to Marcia, who snatched it up and deposited it behind her in the little square hole in the wall separating the business area from the kitchen.
"He giving you trouble?" Marcia asked, though Louise knew she'd seen and heard it all from behind the counter.
"It's no big deal. Pinched my ass, is all. Isn't the first time; won't be the last. I dealt with it."
Marcia glanced over her shoulder. "Way he's looking at you, you might want to watch your back."