Garden of Fiends

by Matthews, Mark

  Oh God, I mumbled, either out loud or in my head. My bowels ready to let loose, the swoon too much. What had I done?

  Don’t take another hit. Don’t.

  This is what it’s like?

  And there was more to be done.

  A gangly-looking woman across from me started smacking her arms. She had chicken-pox skin, and her jaundice flesh glowed a rusty brown. Her father had forgotten about her long ago, that was certain. I didn’t look away until I saw the needle pop her vein and her eyes slowly close shut. Against another wall, I saw a furnace and an old washer and dryer and I wondered how often Tara’s drug dealer did laundry.

  The man in the 88 jersey was chewing on his tongue.

  “I used to get high with a girl named Tara,” I said to the man. “Have you seen her? She’s got black hair. Short. Spikey.”

  “I do, and I have. I know some things, but I wish I had some cash, you know. You look like you have some cash, and you know how nothing comes for free? I seen Tara, but ain’t saying more just yet.”

  “You’ve seen her? I’ll give you some money, okay, but tell me–when did you see her?”

  His neck kept twitching, his face full of tics. His pupils were like strobe-lights in their sockets. His shoulder flinched up to his ear like he’d been tasered by police. His teeth chewed on his tongue as if he were trying to gnaw it right off. I needed him to talk before he went one second more crazy and my little girl was lost forever.

  “I do. Seen her. I know her. Brett’s girl, right? Hot as fuck, too. I almost fucked her, but if you getting some of that then I’m always one to help a brother out. I can tell you more if you give me what I need.”

  My eyes traced the man’s shirt, round and round on the 88’s. Infinite lies, infinite bullshit from his mouth, but I was paying for more. I pulled out a twenty, and he accepted.

  “Yep, bro, Tara was here. Couple nights ago, with Brett. But she wasn’t doing too good.”

  Rage bubbled like lava through the cold crack smoke in my head. “What happened? Tell me. I need to know. Tell me.”

  “You want more, I know more, but I need a little more. You understand?”

  Number 88 could sense I was desperate, and I was getting worked. He had art in his deal that I had none of, and I pulled out another ten bucks. I’d have given him a hundred if he could provide some truth.

  “Hate to see you suffer, don’t fret, bro, but I’m not sure you’ll ever see her again. Brett took her to the back room to get high and then a second or two later all hell broke loose. Brett and Russell carried her out. She overdosed. Not sure what the fuck they did with the body, but folks be dying all the time ’round here, bodies get dragged out of here. Crazy thing is, I told her, I said, ‘Brett’s gonna kill you.’ I told her he was gonna keep poking her until she died. Shame. She’s hot.”

  Crack smoke and molten lava fought inside me. Keep it together. He’s lying. Brett’s in jail for one.

  “Brett? You sure. Brett? Shaved head, skinny.”

  “That’s him, dude talks like he’s smart. Don’t know shit, really. Dude will fuck you over, you know that right?”

  “He’s out of jail?”

  “Guess so, and he been here again last night, but not with her.”

  My girl. Her body taken somewhere. Overdosed. My insides started to break, but why should I believe any of it? This man would say anything for his next rock and sat like a dog waiting for any more crumbs that might drop.

  I stood, found my footing, and dashed up the stairs, pounding each one on the way. I didn’t say a word to anyone upstairs but went right to the front door. It was bolted locked. I clicked it open, and the noise made the owner rise to face me. His eyes didn’t blink. His head ticked like a second hand of the clock. This was the Russell person who was said to have carried my girl in his arms.

  “You think you can just leave? You think that? You come into my house, and want to leave, that’s what you say?”

  “I’m done. I’m good.” I looked to the ground for a second, too long, though. I cracked and gave him power. I didn’t want a fight, but I would not lie on my back to submit for any dog.

  “Cost you ten bucks?”

  “To leave, I pay you to leave?”

  He laughed, white teeth glistening. The laughter got contagious and spread through the room, like the wave at a football game.

  “You pay ten bucks to leave without my boots stomping on your grill. Matter of fact, it’s prime time, it’s twenty right now.”

  My fist clenched and cocked. Volcanic rage rose inside me. Fantasies of taking a swing filled my brain. I realized that one person who would know what to do at that moment was Tara. She’d come and gone from Russell’s many times, but I was being asked to pay a toll before leaving.

  “Unbolt the door, I pay you ten,” I said. He agreed with a grin, and I paid the toll.

  Out onto the porch, out into the night, I took two frantic steps rushing to my car, but instead, I came face to face with the darkest kind of ghoul. His head was shaven, his skin pale, his body skinny, and his eyes shocked to meet mine. It was then that I did swing. The smack of fist on flesh echoed in the dark, and the surprised man fell from the porch.

  It was Brett.

  He had just walked up, was indeed out of jail, and was mine. With all the fury of the hell I could summon, I pummeled his face. As he squirmed on the ground, I stood over him, punching him across the bridge of his nose until he fell limp. I carried his body to the side of my car, praying he wasn’t dead.

  Not at least until after I got him to talk.

  Chapter Four: Gregory Snyder

  “Tell me where she is.”

  Brett finally woke up, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Tell me where she is.” I demanded again.

  “Why? Why did you go and do such things? I’m just here, not hurting you. It’s nonsense.”

  His fingers examined his face for damage. Blood streamed from both nostrils and probably down this throat. His voice gurgled, and his nose was certainly broken.

  “I know you’ve been with her. I don’t know why you’re not in jail, but that is something I can let go, if you just tell me where she is. What did you do with her?”

  “I’m out of Wayne County Jail with full consent and knowledge of the court. I have a job and the judge wants me in society, paying his wages with my tax dollars. Like you. And I’m also out of Tara’s life, because, unlike you, I decided to leave her alone and let her live her own life. She is staying clean. You won, okay? You won.”

  He was a frail, boney thing, and I towered over him. He sat like a boxer, beaten, in the corner between rounds. Still, I wanted to kick him in the jaw and smash in his face. Amazing how drawing some blood made me crave for more.

  “I’ll buy you some heroin,” I promised. “You just tell me where she is? Where did you put her?”

  Number 88 could be bought. Brett had to have his price, too.

  “I told you, I haven’t been with her. You’re talking nonsense. Why do you care anyways? Just because she’s your spawn. I understand having a junkie for a daughter reflects poorly upon you, but why do you want her? It’s not like she wants you to find her. You know that right? You think she would beat someone’s ass in order to find you? Do you think she wants your existence?”

  I kicked him, right in the gut, not hard enough to hurt much, but enough to knock the air out of him and he doubled over.

  “You talk a lot of crap, you know, but nobody cares about you, do they? Nobody out here is looking for you. Nobody would care if you died, and the day you’re buried, the world will be better off.”

  My esophagus burned as I spoke, my heart sizzled, and the words shot forth like a roman candle on that dark, Detroit city night. A crowd of three walked briskly off the sidewalk toward the door of the dopehouse like silent trick-or-treaters. They paid us no mind.

  “And you think you’re better?” he asked, blood spraying from his lips. “You’re right here with me. And you
get up each day and work for your fix. Same as me, same with us. We got to work to get our fix, only difference is, I know what makes me happy. Every. Single. Time.”

  “And it doesn’t matter who you screw over, does it? Forget about my checkbook, but stealing her cousin’s video games? He’s eleven years old. And then her grandmother’s OxyContin? We were going get her hip surgery until we found out she was taking ibuprofen and that’s why she hurt so much. And then scrapping metal from that school as you did? You’re a bullshit-talking snake.”

  “Tip of the fucking iceberg, my good man. You have no idea, no idea what Tara will do to get high. Your girl is a dopefiend’s dream, and it wouldn’t be the same to get high without her. And let me add that Tara’s expecting me. Expecting to have my kids. Expecting me to be with her always. We’ll be together when this blows over.”

  “Where is she? I know you were here two days ago and carried her out of here. You want me to get the police to talk to you?”

  “I told you, I haven’t seen her. If she does get high, it’s because of you. You know that right? She told me. She said you got her high on Oxy her very first time so she didn’t have to miss a soccer tournament, and then she got the itch. She’s been getting her freak on ever since. Well played, my good man, well played.”

  The Oxy story was a half-truth, and he knew how to hurt me with it. My insides hummed like my stomach was a beehive and everything getting stung just the same. I had no idea what to do next.

  Phantom buzz of my phone, I checked my cell, but this was no phantom. A text from Heather.

  Call me. She’s at the hospital. I’m going there now. She’s okay. Mostly. CALL ME.

  Relief rushed through me. Brett noticed I was distracted so got up, slowly, testing to see if I’d stop him. I dialed Heather, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Gregory. Thank God. She’s at Beaumont. She had an overdose. A relapse. I’m going there now.”

  “But she’s okay? She’s alive, I mean, she’ll live. How did she get there?”

  “She’s alive and stable. They said someone just dumped her. They don’t know who, but camera did pick up a Jeep Wrangler. Like Brett’s. But he’s in jail. Right? My God. But what matters is you get here. We need you. Where are you?”

  Pressure in my head shot back up, brain cells snapped, sirens went off. Each breath I took was like a hit off the crack stem. I had a vision of Tara’s body being pushed from Brett’s Jeep onto the black cement of the hospital parking lot. Alone, holes in her arm, holes in my heart, both of us so cold inside.

  I looked up at Brett. He was halfway up the driveway toward the front door.

  “Are you there? Where are you?” I heard Heather ask from the phone.

  “Taking care of it.” I hung up.

  I dashed to my car, lifted open the trunk, reached in the darkness and grabbed a wooden handle, not even sure what garden tool I had, but I needed to act. I dashed at Brett with a thunderous war cry. He turned, the whites of his eyes glowed, and I jabbed the garden tool into his neck as if I was a Spartan warrior. His jaw dropped, my jaw dropped just the same, just as surprised as he. I was like his reflection, transfixed by his face and stuck in that moment. The reflection shattered, he gagged, tried to speak but I only heard gurgles. I twisted the blade and something severed, summoning forth torrents of blood. When he fell, the blade came free, and I stabbed him one more time, puncturing his abdomen, then stepped on top the tool with all my weight. The kill shot.

  It was not the shovel, it was the spade, and I’d ripped open his neck, and dug a hole in his gut. He’d get high no more.

  Chapter Five: Gregory Snyder

  I am not a killer. I’m a suburban dad with a bachelor’s degree in engineering and a love for designing cars. My specific job is to calculate ways to reduce wind resistance and other intrusions in order to create a quieter ride inside the cabin, improving the driving experience.

  I had killed many spiders in my time and tossed them in the garbage, often upon Tara’s request and despite Heather’s plea to “catch and release.” I had scooped dead goldfish out of dirty fishbowls and said a few kind words before watching their bodies swirl down the toilet. Years ago, before we had our dog, T-Rex, I drove our dog Oreo (and his giant stomach tumor) to the vet for an injection. I watched as he slipped into a permanent sleep and stayed in the room crying until his body was cold.

  All of these deaths I made happen as the head of my family.

  Same reason I’ve killed one person.

  The body in my trunk bumped around like a loose spare tire. I helped design this car to keep the ride smooth and quiet, but it wasn’t made for times like these. I got text after text from Heather, calls that went unanswered, voicemails left, as I dashed about the city.

  “I AM COMING,” I wrote back, all caps. My head spun. There was a body to dump, but I had to stay cool—a routine traffic stop could put me in prison.

  At first, the thought of burying the body in the urban garden was insane. One of those decisions that come to you only because they are the worst possible things to do at that moment, like jumping off a cruise ship as you lean over the edge, or putting your hand into a garbage disposal as it sliced apart egg shells. One of those urges that are quickly dismissed, but then I realized it was brilliant.

  There was a fenced-in yard. I could do it in private. I could make the body disintegrate fast with no chance of it being discovered. And what was best—a grave was ready and waiting—the one created by Tara and Che Guevara just last week, and the dirt was still loose.

  I could bury this man inside a grave dug by my daughter. There could be no better way to put this demon back into hell for good.

  My focus was burning. I was surprised at its precision. The outside turbulence wasn’t intruding one bit. I needed to get it done and see my daughter.

  The night was full dark when I opened up the garden’s gate while my car was still running. I returned to the driver’s seat, and as I backed in, I looked in my mirror and illuminated in red brake lights I saw a homeless man pushing a grocery cart behind me.

  Lorenzo.

  I waited, foot on the brake, hands tight on the wheel, hoping he would pass and I’d back right up and be done with it.

  But instead, he stopped in his tracks. His cheeks glowed auburn red in the brake light against the black sky. He squinted, as if looking into a bright sun, and I gave him every chance to move but instead he waited, so I did too, and he just stood there with his grocery cart full of possessions.

  I finally surrendered and got out of the car to talk.

  “Hello sir. I’m just trying to back up here. Do you mind giving me some space?”

  His head cocked to the side, as if he didn’t believe I was real, or he didn’t believe that I called him sir, it was hard to tell which. His brain certainly had some mileage on it.

  “Oh, you’re trying to get into here?”

  A buzz from my cell. Real or phantom? Hard to tell, but my daughter was in the hospital and this old man was in the way.

  “Yes, I am. So can you please move forward?”

  I went to push his cart, and he flinched.

  “Kind sir, do I touch your car? Do I move it? This here is my supplies, and it’s my crutch. I don’t move without it. It’s my legs, for my knees are rusty, it’s my home, for my roof is the night sky. I am here often at this hour. Now you–why are you here? Are you friend or foe? What is this place?”

  I breathed through my nose, filled my lungs, and tried to blow out all my irritation.

  “Listen. I am a friend of yours. This place is going to be an urban garden. We are growing fresh vegetables for the neighborhood. You are invited. If you live nearby, then you come back, right here, in a few months. We’ll have fresh food for you. We will.”

  His eyes looked down at his cart, examining it, as if waiting to turn the keys and not sure it would start.

  “What are you doing here now, at this hour of the night?”

  “Just working the f
arm until late, the moon is perfect at this hour.”

  We both looked to the sky. A tiny sliver of the moon looked down.

  “Indeed, perfect, and we are getting rain tomorrow. I know weather, I know the way the wind blows, and so you do your part. Do you have time for me to tell you a story?”

  “No time, I’m sorry. The night is late, maybe later.”

  By the time I was behind the wheel, the man had moved on. I backed the car in and waited until the rattle-rattle, clank-clank-clank of the grocery cart completely faded.

  I opened the trunk. The body had cooled, but yes, still there waiting for me, harmless. So beautifully harmless. Stars shined down, sparkling reds and blues, each one a pinhole in my daughter’s arms, now celebrating the burial. My head swiveled for any other signs of life, but I was alone just as I’d planned. I would say I felt guilty for killing this man, but I was not. I was fearful of getting caught, and even if that happened, this was self-defense, this was justice, a societal favor, and I’d go to jail to save my daughter if needed.

  The loose earth was dug out easily, and when I plopped the body into the earth, it was a noise so comforting, so final, I wanted to say a few words of thanks.

  I was not there just to bury, however, I was there to burn and bury, so I grabbed a can of lawn mower gas, poured it on the corpse, and happily lit the pyre. The gas lit up like a barbeque, a glorious bonfire, and the stench of burning clothes and flesh filled the sky. I let it burn for just moments and wondered if his soul could feel the pain. I’d have kept the flame going had it not been a beacon for attention, so I shoveled dirt upon it sooner than I wanted to. Then I poured on the fertilizer that would eat him apart and leave hardly anything. Nobody will dig this deep again, and if they do, just bones from the house of a long forgotten past.

  The fire inside me still burned, and I was off to the hospital to tend to my daughter.

  Chapter Six: Tara Snyder

  “Stop listening if you aren’t going to believe me. I was trying to stay clean. You just don’t get it.”