Rosalind

by Stephen Paden

  Bald tires, he thought. If it was in fact John's truck that made those tracks, the irony of bald tires did not escape him.

  When the sun disappeared under the horizon, Sheriff Hanes left his office and locked the door behind him. He drove his cruiser to his house and switched it with his Plymouth Belvedere. If this was going to be unofficial, he wouldn't drag the cruiser into it.

  Fourteen, he thought. Six.

  He revved the engine. He hadn't driven it for over six months, but it started and purred like a kitten. He was thankful for that. He might be able to do this unnoticed. He pulled the Belvedere out of his driveway, and headed to the Byrd farm.

  When he got to the T that intersected Main Street, he killed the lights and then pulled off the side of the road. It was a mile to the Byrd house, but he didn't mind the walk. It was muggy, but all the same, he needed the exercise. In a small town like Whispering Pines, sheriffing was, for the most part, a hands-off, sit-down affair. He cursed his gut and started walking.

  The stars were out but the moon was hidden, which made the stars that much brighter and more plentiful. He could see Orion and the Little Dipper off to the West and Perseus off to the South. As a boy, his father had had a book on astronomy and he learned all of the constellations that he could, but over the years, those were the three he remembered best. He didn't have any need or desire to relearn things once forgotten, and really had no need for the three left in his memory, but they were burned into his mind like the stars were the sky.

  He reached the farm about twenty minutes later, sweating and breathing like he had just run a marathon. He looked for the truck but didn't see it. The car was in the driveway. Behind the driveway, however, was the barn that he had seen so many times before, and it was the only place big enough to store something the size of a truck. He pleaded with himself not to find what he suspected he would find, but pushed himself to eliminate this one lead. If he could, he told himself, he would close the case and retire with that one blemish—the one case he couldn't solve. And that would have been okay, if it had only been a break-in. But it wasn't just a break-in. An innocent girl had been violated. And as he said that word to himself, he knew that it wasn't remotely adequate enough to describe what had been done to Rosalind. She had everything stolen from her. Her youth; her innocence. But remarkably, she had kept her kind spirit and, whether it was innocence or just plain simplemindedness, he didn't care. She was undefeated because she was ignorant of the prospect that she could lose. But he sighed when he thought about her. He thought that if it had been his daughter, he would have gone sleepless until he found the bastard and killed him. Had he done enough for Rosalind? Had he really pursued this guy as if Rosalind was his own? The answer of course was no. He hated himself for that, but he wasn't done yet. And if what he suspected was in the barn turned out to be there, the damage to his psyche, his sense of being a father, would be incalculable. Susan would be destroyed. Rosalind, he wasn't sure. It would destroy the community. But there was Rosalind. She didn't ask for anything that had happened to her. No one in life ever did, really. But most people have in them a sense of self-preservation. He thought about that for a moment and realized that maybe she did. Her ability to deal with and even survive what had happened to her just might be one of the highest forms of it.

  But she didn't asked for any of it, and she didn't deserve it. She didn't ask to be raped by her father, and then impregnated by another man at the age of thirteen. But was her justice worth the reputation of an entire community? Without hesitation, he said yes.

  He ducked behind the Byrd's car. The lights to the living room were on and Susan was sitting at the table, reading a book. The lights were also on in Rosalind's bedroom, which was good. He didn't see John, and that made him nervous. His study was off the living room, and would have taken him going around to the backside of the house to see if that light was on, but he was already close to the barn. He slinked past the car and to the gate of the fence. He carefully and quietly lifted the metal latch of the gate and crouched into the barnyard. Wanting an easy escape, he set the gate latch to where it was touching its cubby, but not latched in. Once inside the yard, he went over to the barn door, took a deep breath, and slowly opened it.

  It was pitch black inside of the barn. The sweet smell of rotten hay and oil permeated the air and sank into his lungs. He had been in many barns that smelled like this, so it was not an unwelcome nor surprising thing. He reached for the silver and red Daimon flashlight in his back pocket, and flipped it on, aiming it at the biggest area where a truck would sit, but when the light came on, he saw no truck.

  Had he gotten rid of it? Had John gotten spooked when he asked him about the cigarettes? And where was John? Was he out right now, raping, or worse killing, another thirteen-year-old?

  He shook his head. There was no evidence to suggest he was responsible for either Rosalind's situation or Jessica Peterson's disappearance. He was not here to make an accusation. He was here to rule him out as quietly as possible. He drug the beam across the floor of the barn to look for tracks, but the dirt here was completely dry and mixed with ground up hay from years past. He did spot a patch of oil in the middle, so the sheriff knew that this is where he kept the truck. He flipped the flashlight off and went back to the door. The sound of tires crackling down the driveway started getting closer. Had he seen the flashlight?

  The sheriff raced around the barn, clumsily looking for anything to hide behind. If it was John, he'd be pulling the truck back into the barn.

  When he'd found what he thought was adequate cover, he hunkered down, making sure once again that his flashlight was off. It was.

  The sound of the barnyard gate creaked open and the shadow of a figure appeared under the doorway to the barn and into the light that was coming from the house. The big door swung open and the black figure stood there for a minute, looking in. Hanes held his breath and watched it.

  The figure, which he was sure was John, took a drag from a cigarette and toss it on the ground, stepping on it and squishing it into the ground. He turned around and then headed back to his truck and slowly backed it into the garage. The sheriff let out a breath and started to take air in normally. A waft of exhaust poured over the sheriff's face and burned his eyes. He coughed a little right as the engine cut off. John stepped out of the vehicle and looked in his general direction. He closed the door and stood there. After a few moments, he turned toward the house and exited the barn, closing the big door behind him. The sheriff let out a big sigh and then wiped his eyes.

  Where had John been?

  He quietly inched his way from behind the stall that he dove into and felt his way through the dark and to the tailgate of the truck. He couldn't see anything, but he couldn't risk using his flashlight. He knelt down and let his hands guide him down to the right side wheel basin. At first he felt the side of the tire and it was smooth. He drug his hand reluctantly to the treads of the tire.

  It was bare and without tread.

  His heart sank.

  Sheriff Hanes had come here with the intent of ruling out John as a suspect (his only suspect) but instead his findings only confirmed the suspicion. But it was an old truck, and bald tires meant nothing. He continued to squat along the side of the truck until his hands came across the handle to the passenger side door. If he opened it, it would make noise. If he was lucky and it didn't he would have still have to close it, which would make even more noise. He reached up to the window and felt a pang of relief—it was down.

  The cigarette pack that he had noticed a few days ago wasn't stuck between the fold in the seat, but John had apparently been smoking, so it could be anywhere. He knew that John had been hiding it from Susan (hardly a prosecutable offense, and if it was, every man in town would have filled up his jail), so he had hoped that the pack was still inside of the cab.

  He stood up and reached blindly into the cab and started feeling around on the worn seat. At first he found nothing, but after starting again at the rig
ht most side, he made a sweep that covered the entire right seat.

  Still nothing.

  He reached further into the middle of the seat and his hand grazed a small box with several crumples in it. When he was able to get hold of it, he pulled it out and crunched back down against the side of the truck.

  He flipped the pack open and drug his right index finger across the opening. There were four round cylinders. He ran through the numbers again: 9 found outside of Nancy's house, 5 found near the scene at Jessica Peterson's alleged abduction, and the one he saw John ash inside the barn door. All of it added up to twenty, but for someone to make a pack of cigarettes last so long, it seemed unlikely. Was it coincidence?

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead and put the pack back in on the seat.

  The barn door flew open and there stood John's silhouette against the lights coming from the house. He didn't say a word.

  "John. You scared the shit outta me. I can explain—"

  John started walking towards the sheriff, picking up the pace as he came. "John, now calm down I had to follow a lead, and—"

  John was upon him, and the sheriff felt a sharp pain in his stomach. John breathed heavily into his face, the stench of tobacco filling his nose. Involuntarily, he fell to his knees in shock. The sheriff grabbed his stomach and then looked at his hands. The light from the house was dim and he couldn't see them, but he felt the warm liquid cover a few of his fingers. He tried to scream, but John stuck the knife into his throat. The sheriff grasped at his throat, trying to yell, but only blood and saliva fell from his mouth and mixed with the dirt, oil and hay of the barn floor. He fell to his side and reached for his gun, but it wasn't there. His mind was filled with a mixture of remembrance—he hadn't brought his gun—and chaotic fear. This was a reconnaissance mission only. He was supposed to be in an out in a few minutes, when now he had only a few minutes left to live.

  John stood above him, looking down. He stooped down and whispered in the sheriff's ear, "Shouldn't have poked around, sheriff. Shouldn't have poked your nose where it didn't belong. But if it makes you feel any better, it wasn't my fault. That red-headed whore had it coming, flaunting her shit around. I mean, what was I supposed to do, huh? Answer me that?" The sheriff gasped for air but it was becoming more difficult to breathe, taking in blood and coughing it back up. "But it all worked out, didn't it? Think of Rosalind like…a surrogate mother! Yeah, only I got to eat the cake. Susan will come around. I know her. She'll come around." he whispered loudly in his ear, sending spit all over the side of the sheriff's face. The sheriff turned to look at, his eyes questioning how, how could a man do that to a child, but behind the question was impotent anger and helplessness. He reached up with his hand and put it on John's throat, but there was no strength behind it. John let him have this one, last bravado. The sheriff's hand fell to his side, and his body straightened out on the ground; his lifeless eyes wide, staring at the ceiling of the barn, his mouth agape. John put his hand on the sheriff's chest and felt it rescind one last time. He patted him on the chest and kissed his forehead.

  "You're a big lug, you know that," he said to the corpse. He stood up and went to the barn door, closing it. Surely Susan had heard him come home, so she would wonder what he was doing. he looked down at the sheriff and said, "Be right with you."

  He opened the door and walked to the house. Taking out his bloody knife from his pocket, he sliced open his hand and winced. He put the knife away and walked inside.

  Chapter 41

  "Where were you?" Susan asked, her back turned from him as he walked in the house.

  "Oh, just working on the truck. I think a spark plug needs to be replaced, but there was a small accident," he said, holding up his wounded hand.

  She turned around to look at him and her face turned frightful at the sight of oil and blood on his white dress shirt and his hands. "You're dripping, God, let me get you cleaned up!" She raced to the kitchen, ran some water, and put a hand towel underneath it. She came back to him, her eyes fixed on the bloody hand. "I wish you'd get rid of that thing, it's a death trap."

  "Oh, it's just a cut, my dear," he said. "But I think it might be time to call it quits with the ole girl. Gonna miss her."

  "Finally. You could've said that a few years ago," she said with a smirk.

  "Well, I'm saying it now," he replied, kissing her on the forehead. "I'll take it from here." He grabbed the towel and pressed it against the cut, whistling as he walked to his den.

  He emerged a few minutes later with a torn shirt wrapped around his hand and then walked to the door.

  "Don't you think that's enough for tonight?" Susan asked as he held the door open.

  "Just a few more things to tidy up and then I'll be in. What's for supper?" he said.

  "Uh, chicken breast and potatoes. I was able to talk May Dryer out of a chicken for a few spools of silk thread." He rolled his eyes. "I know you don't like them, but it's just a chicken." He looked at her and then finally nodded, closing the door behind him.

  When he got to the barn, he closed the door and leaned down to check on the sheriff.

  Still dead.

  He grabbed him by his feet then swung him around on the ground and pulled him to the back of the truck. He flipped the tailgate down, breathed in heavily a few times, and heaved the sheriff's large body into the truck, his knees almost buckling under the strain. Once it was inside, he closed the tailgate and then started rummaging through the different stalls, looking for a cover for the body. He had a cloth tarp his father had used to protect the bails during rainy weather, and he was sure it was in here. After a half-hour of searching, he found it up in the loft draped over long-forgotten hay that had withered from age and climate. He pulled the stiff, ratted cloth to the edge of the upper rise and cast it as best he could into the bed of the truck. To his surprise, it fanned out a little and landed on the corpse, almost completely covering it. He climbed back down the ladder and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  John jumped in the back with the corpse and pushed and pulled the tarp into place until the corpse was completely covered. If he got pulled over for any reason, anyone with a brain would be able to see that it was a tarp covering a body. He still had some work to do.

  He thought for a minute and then slapped his own forehead. If the tarp was good enough to cover the body, why not use the old, rotten hay to cover the tarp? It was rank and a bit slimy where the tarp hadn't completely covered it and the rain dripped on it from the multiple holes in the barn roof. He climbed back up and started filling his arms with the mulch and dropped it into the back of the truck.

  After fifteen minutes, the back of the truck was filled with the rotten hay, and he climbed back down, smiled at his work, and then walked back to the house.

  Oh his way back, he stopped and looked up at the stars. He never much cared for the shapes they made or how hot they burned. He only cared that, according to human beings and their small part in the workings of the universe, they were essentially eternal. Killing Jessica Peterson had been an accident, a shock to his system. But it had initiated in him a new hunger. Killing the sheriff had been all him. He was in control. He saw a problem, and he solved it like he always did.

  I should've been mayor, he thought.

  He took the initiative. That's what great leaders did; they didn't wait for things to unravel, they got out the fucking scissors and cut off the dead weight. And while his Byrd Watching was fine to start with, none of that had compared to watching the life slip away from Jessica Peterson, knowing that he had done it with his own hands. Now, he had the sheriff under his belt. He was no weak girl, either. He was a big guy—the law! He had taken down the highest ranked law officer in the county. And he did it with a knife.

  Some people use guns, he thought. But it was so impersonal. He had used his hands, and as he stood under the starlight, his eternal jury, he looked at his hands and saw the universe; the black expanse filled with speckles of bright stars, and at the center of it al
l was a bright, unending light. And that light was him.

  ***

  He went back in the house and snuck upstairs to the bathroom where he washed the blood and oil from his hands. He gently removed the towel from the hand with the cut on it, but as he pulled it away, some of the fibers clung to the wound. He didn't feel the pain anymore. He put the wound under warm running water and watched as the blood and oil mixed together and swirled down the sink. He grabbed the soap and rubbed it ferociously in his hands, using his fingernails to dig deep into the folds of skin on the top and bottom, but when he got to his wound he stopped and looked in the mirror.

  The body.

  He had to do something with it, and he had to do it tonight. During any August day, the barn would turn into a large oven. It would start to smell in at least twelve hours, he thought. How would he rationalize to Susan that he needed to go out again? He wouldn't. He was too smart for that.

  Once his hands were clean, he grabbed a clean hand-towel and wrapped it around his hand. He went downstairs.

  "Honey, I'm going to bed. Got an early morning tomorrow," he said to an empty room.

  Susan poked her head out of the French doors in the kitchen. "Oh? No dinner?"

  He held up his wounded hand and smiled, almost ashamed (if that were possible with John). "I've lost my appetite."

  She nodded and said, "O—Okay, I'll just save it for your lunch tomorrow." She came through the double doors and planted a kiss on his lips. "You smell different. Did you pick up some new cologne?"

  "Not that I know of, why?" he asked.

  "No reason," she said turning back to the kitchen. "It smells like the stuff Joe wears. Awful if you ask me." She disappeared into the kitchen.