Cicada Spring

by Christian Galacar

  And that was when he saw it; the kid was slowly lowering his left hand toward the wrench still stuck on the lug nut. The killer hadn’t noticed at first, but the kid’s fingers were dangling only inches from the tool. They were twitching, readying themselves for action. He looked down at the kid’s hand and then up into his eyes. The killer stepped forward, opening his mouth to tell the kid to not move a fucking muscle, but it was too late. The kid bent down, grabbing the tire iron, and swung at the gun, cutting a wet gray streak through the air.

  “Back off, you crazy fuck!” He missed, the wrench crashing into the back window of his Pinto. Glass popped and shattered.

  The killer backed up and squeezed the trigger. The Luger barked once. Twice. A third time. The last bullet hit the kid square in the face, entering right above his upper lip. His head snapped back, and blood and bits of skull and brain matter covered the roof of the car like curdled blood-milk. He slumped sideways and slid down the side of the car. He caught for a moment on the side-view mirror, eventually dropping to the ground like a limp sack of bones.

  “No, no, no, no, shit!” the killer yelled. He brought his hands to the top of his head, the gun still smoking and clutched in his forefinger and palm. “Why did you do that, you dumb fuck? You ruined it.” He sprang forward and started kicking the kid’s lifeless body. Thwack thwack thwack. “You asshole!” Thwack. “You goddamn maggot!” Thwack thwack. “This was going so well.” Thwack.

  When he’d exhausted himself, he stopped, caught his breath, and looked around. The rest stop was still empty, save for their two cars. He bent down, picking up two of the shell casings. The third he remembered hearing bounce behind him when he’d fired. He straightened, turning around. He didn’t see it. Anxiety cut through his chest. He walked to his truck and dropped down on his stomach, looking underneath. There it was, shining dully from the fluorescent lights of the information booth. Careless fool. He slid his arm under and grabbed it. Standing, he shoved all three spent bullet shells in his pocket and stuffed the gun in his waistband.

  He approached the kid. His eyes were open, staring blankly up at the sky. Rain water mixed with blood pooled in the corners of his eye sockets. His lips were parted, his top front teeth missing—some were bloody, jagged shards. The killer knelt down and began rummaging through the kid’s pockets. There was a wallet. He opened it, searching for anything of value. He found nothing, only a driver’s license. He slid it out, putting the identification in his pocket without reading it. He wiped the wallet clean of fingerprints and tossed it into the Pinto through the broken window.

  A car drove by on the freeway, sloshing over the wet road but continued without stopping. But what if it had stopped? Cold coils of panic tightened in his gut. He jumped up and went back to his truck, grabbing the canvas tarp. He spread it out on the ground next to the kid’s body, rolled him into the center, and wrapped it up.

  The kid was heavy, solid with young muscle, but he managed to get the body off the ground, slinging it up over his shoulder. He headed into the woods behind the information booth, carrying the kid almost two hundred yards down a lightly worn trail before spotting a small ravine and veering left into thick brush. He rolled the body down the embankment and into the gulch. Sticks snapped as it tumbled to the bottom, where it settled with a soft thump. He turned over in his mind whether or not he should walk down and cover the body but decided against it. It was better if he just got out of there. If someone pulled into that rest stop and saw his truck and that kid’s car together, things would have to get a lot messier than they already were.

  Before he turned and headed back to his truck, the killer set his eyes on the twisted, blood-soaked tarp sitting in the ditch. It was hard to make out in the dark, but his eyes were well adjusted by now. An arm protruded from a loose fold in the canvas. It’d probably come open on its trip down the hill. It wasn’t so much the arm that caught his attention, though—it was the kid’s hand. All the fingers were balled into a fist, as though they were still curled around the tire iron, except his index and middle finger stuck out straight, flashing an unintentional peace sign. The image brought a smile to the killer’s face. He wanted that camera now more than ever. This shot would have been his first masterpiece, a special little something to remember the kid by. He imagined he might call it Peace Lover.

  After a minute, the killer peeled himself away and left.

  When he returned to his truck, relief washed over him. Theirs were still the only two cars there. But what if someone came and left while you were out in those woods? What if they saw your truck? It was too late now. Nothing he could do about it. Next time he would be better.

  In the truck, he removed his hat and jacket and then started the engine. Before he put it in gear, he reached into his pocket, fishing out the kid’s driver’s license. On the floor beside him was a metal ammunition can (another piece from his father’s collection). He picked it up and opened the latch. Inside were packs of cigarettes. He removed them two at a time, putting them on the seat. Ten in total, a full carton. To an untrained eye, the ammo can was empty now, but in the bottom right corner, hardly visible, there was the smallest indentation. The killer pushed his fingernail into the space, prying up a piece of green sheet metal that served as a false bottom. He’d added that little touch himself, a neat little hiding spot to preserve his collection. Underneath, there was a folded piece of cloth to keep everything from sliding around. He lifted that out and put it on the dash, revealing the true bottom of the container. Placed neatly near one end were three licenses bound together with a rubber band, a gold chain with a cross hung on it, and six empty shell casings in a plastic baggie.

  He held the new kid’s license under a shaft of light: William Mathey, Bridgewater, Massachusetts, Born 2/19/58.

  The killer rubbed his thumb over William’s ID picture and smiled. Then he bound it with the other three in the ammo can, added the three newly spent shells to his collection, laid the cloth back over everything, reset the false bottom, and closed it.

  The killer glanced down at his watch. It was almost three thirty. He had been at the rest stop almost an hour and a half. He needed to hit the road. He hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours. On the seat beside him was a road map of Massachusetts. He picked it up and found where he was on Interstate 91. There was a motel about twenty-five miles to his west in Heartsridge.

  He put the truck in gear and headed out of the rest stop.

  CHAPTER 6

  The edge of Kara’s bed felt like a cliff off which she might leap and make this all go away. Her mother had just seen the sheriff’s cruiser pulling into the driveway and had gone downstairs to meet him. Now she was alone again.

  Kara sat staring down at her dirty feet. The thong strap of her flip-flops left a funny Y shape in the dirt on her feet. She knew it wasn’t humorous, but somehow the grimy Y brought a faint smile to her face. It was something else to focus on. That was all. When her lip stretched into a smile, the cut cracked and began to throb again. Instinctively, she brought her fingers to her mouth. The cut was greasy, covered in ointment—her mother had been generous with the antibacterial. She got some on her fingers and wiped it off on her sheets, leaving two dark streaks on the linens. In a far-off way, it reminded her of the blood she’d tried to wipe off her legs at the creek, before she’d waded into those unforgiving, icy waters.

  On the first floor, the front door opened. The spring on the screen door moaned as it stretched and then recoiled. The door banged shut, the thin wood bouncing against the jamb. Then up the stairs came the sound of people talking in concerned tones. Next was the intermittent shuffle of people walking through the downstairs hallway. After a few moments, the footfalls began to grow louder and sharpen as they traveled upstairs. It sent a flutter through Kara’s stomach. She knew what they wanted. What they’d all want, eventually. They’d want to know who did this to her. But she didn’t want to say. Once she said it, it was out there. She may have only been fifteen, but she was well a
ware of the situation that would arise when—if—she pointed a finger.

  There was a soft knock on her bedroom door. “Kara?” a female voice said. It wasn’t her mother’s. “Kara, it’s Deputy—it’s Catherine Carlisle. Can I come in? I work at the sheriff’s department.”

  Kara didn’t respond. Speaking just felt like too much effort, like if she opened her mouth and tried, nothing would come out.

  Catherine knocked again. “Kara… Kara, I’m going to come in, okay?” The handle turned with a squeak, and the door opened slowly.

  Kara looked up and saw Catherine standing in the doorway. She didn’t know the woman well, but she did know who she was—a side effect of living in a small town. Kara was surprised to see that the deputy was in plain clothes: white T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of tennis shoes. Kara studied Catherine. She was short and thin, small breasted, with dark hair she kept gathered in a ponytail. She was pretty but not beautiful. There was a power and a hardness to her. Kara could sense it like a granite aura, and somehow it put her at ease.

  Catherine came in, leaving the door open behind her. Kara’s parents stood in the hallway talking with Sheriff Gaines. Kara couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, only that her mother kept repeating, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know…”

  “Kara, what happened, sweetie?” Catherine asked. The bed creaked when she took a seat next to Kara on the edge. “Your mother tells me you were attacked. Is that right?”

  Kara stuffed her hands underneath her thighs, looking down at the ground and making small circles with her big toe on the floor. Why couldn’t this all just go away? She could feel the deputy looking at her, inspecting her face the same way her parents had.

  “Kara, I know this is tough, but if someone hurt you, we need to know,” Catherine said, lowering her head, trying to make eye contact with Kara.

  “I know,” Kara said under her breath, and turned her head. Her eyes met Catherine’s, and for a moment Kara thought she might let it all come spilling out.

  There was a sense in her that doing so would relieve the pressure of whatever it was she was feeling—pain, anger, shame, guilt? She didn’t know. But she did know that the truth was eating at her from the inside like a cancer. She wanted to tell someone. She needed to tell someone. But she couldn’t because then everyone would know. How could she show her face anywhere after that? People talked in Heartsridge. Kara knew this firsthand because she was just as bad. She wasn’t innocent when it came to gossip. When Sadie Matthews got her first menstrual visit in the middle of class a year back, bleeding right through her white jeans, Kara had been sitting next to her in homeroom. For the week after, she’d told anyone who would listen. Soon, girls giggled in corners, throwing tampons at Sadie as she walked down the halls. It got so bad that she stopped showing up for school altogether and just opted for summer school, as opposed to being teased relentlessly by the other girls.

  “So tell me what happened. You told your mother you were raped. Is that what happened?” Catherine asked.

  Kara closed her eyes, her bottom lip starting to quiver. She nodded vaguely and began to cry. “Yes,” she whispered. Suddenly, she had a powerful urge to call Sadie Matthews and apologize, beg her forgiveness and ask to be friends. She couldn’t understand why, but there it was.

  Catherine picked up a thin blanket at the end of the bed and wrapped it around Kara’s shoulders. “Okay. It’s okay,” she said, and placed her arm around Kara.

  “I didn’t even do anything.” Kara continued to sob into the deputy’s arm.

  Catherine held her, shushing her gently, comforting her, but after about a minute or so, she pulled away, holding Kara at arm’s length by the shoulders. She was still crying lightly, the rims of her eyes red and raw. Catherine was looking at her with a serious gaze. “Kara, I know this is tough, but we need to know who did this to you. Your mom says you won’t tell her.”

  Kara broke down again, shaking her head and looking down at her feet. “No. No, I can’t. You don’t understand. If I tell you then it’s going to be worse. I know it will. Please, just… just let me forget about this. It’s not a big deal… really.” Kara forced herself to stop crying, swallowing hard, attempting to gather her composure. “Honest, I’m okay. I’m just being stupid.” She wiped her eyes on the blanket.

  Catherine’s lips parted. Then she tightened her face and shook her head, as if for a moment she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “No… no, Kara, this is a big deal. What was done to you is serious. And we need to know who did this so that this person can’t hurt anyone else.”

  Kara didn’t answer, only stared straight ahead. Inside her a battle raged. Everything urged her to just say what had happened and have it be over with. But another part of her, the part that saw her being ridiculed and talked about, would not allow it. Yes, the edge of her bed was like a cliff, and yes, she may have wanted to jump off it, but she could not for the life of her find the will to leap. And it wasn’t suicide if she jumped; it was peace of mind, closure, the last step before healing could begin.

  Kara’s parents and Sheriff Gaines stood in the room now, all looking on but saying nothing, their faces carved in stone.

  “I’m sorry,” Kara said. She fell over onto her bed, bringing her feet up and curling into the fetal position. “Can’t this just go away?” She turned and stared blankly out the window beside her bed. “Just go away…” She trailed off to a whisper.

  Catherine sighed heavily and leaned over to Kara. “It’s okay, you did good. Don’t worry about anything right now, sweetie. We need to get you to a doctor, though—”

  In a lifeless voice, Kara interrupted and began speaking, not to Catherine or anyone in particular, just speaking. “He told me he would give me a ride home.” Somewhere inside her a leak had sprung, small at first, but the immense pressure was causing it to widen in a hurry. “I said I could walk back, I didn’t mind, but he insisted. He said it was getting late and that a young girl shouldn’t be wandering the streets alone.”

  Suddenly, everyone she’d turned her back to had moved in front of her, but she hardly acknowledged them.

  “Who, Kara?” her father blurted, and stepped forward. “Tell me who did this to you.”

  Ellie grabbed his arm and squeezed.

  “Easy, David,” Gaines said softly. “Catherine’s got this.”

  David halted and looked back at his wife. She widened her eyes at him.

  With that haunted lifelessness in her voice, Kara continued as if she were some sad doll whose string had been pulled, and this was her preordained recitation. “When I left Town Hall, I started walking home. He pulled up and offered me a ride. I said okay. He always seemed like a nice guy, so I got in. Then he said he needed to make a stop first, and he’d take me home after.” Kara paused and took a deep breath.

  “Where did he take you?” Catherine asked.

  “We went to Baker’s Pond. He said he needed to drop a check off at the water department. But no one was there when we pulled up. It was only us. He parked the car and told me to get in the backseat. At first I almost thought he was joking or something because he had a huge grin on his face. But when I started to ask him what he was talking about, he hit me. And then, well, he just… he wouldn’t stop.” Her face tensed, on the verge of twisting into tears, but she looked down at the floor and her face relaxed.

  “Who, Kara?” Catherine leaned in, forcing eye contact.

  Kara didn’t answer, only breathed softly through her nose. She could see herself inching closer to the edge of that cliff in her mind. That ledge she could not force herself to jump off. Her toes were hanging over the side, and Kara leaned forward, holding on with only one hand to whatever it was behind her that anchored her. Slowly she felt her weight shifting as her fingers began to slip and then one by one let go. There was a moment where she felt as if she were falling out of control, but quickly, before she lost all purchase, Kara pushed off from her toes and leapt. This would be on her term
s. “Mr. Bennett,” she said. “It was Mr. Bennett.” A strange ease washed over her with those words, a feeling of something restored. A piece of whatever she’d lost had just been returned to her.

  A claustrophobic silence smothered the room, her last two words hanging electric in the air like the reverberating chime of an alarm bell after being struck.

  Catherine looked back at Gaines, then to Ellie and David. They all looked as though they’d just been slapped across the face. Mouths agape. Eyes wide. Limbs frozen in rigid postures.

  “Do you mean Harry Bennett? As in Mayor Bennett?” Gaines asked, breaking the silence.

  Kara wiped a tear from her eye and sat up. “Yes,” she said, and ran her tongue over the cut on her lip.

  It still hurt, but the pain had lessened.

  CHAPTER 7

  Gaines paced back and forth in Dr. Hornsby’s waiting room, stopping occasionally and pretending to analyze the cheap Van Gogh prints hanging on the wall. He was pretending because David Price and he were now alone together, and Gaines knew exactly what question lingered in the ether between them: Is your daughter lying? Harry Bennett was a bit rough around the edges, sure, and maybe he played a little less than fair when it came to town politics, but rape? Gaines couldn’t believe it; the mayor was a happily married man. He didn’t doubt that something had happened to Kara Price, but he could not in good conscience take the sole accusation of a fifteen-year-old as absolute truth right out of the gate.

  Eventually he stopped in front of Kara’s father, holding his hat in one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. He exhaled slowly through his nose. He needed to get this out, needed to get it over and done with. And it wasn’t because it needed to go into any file or onto any report. It was because he needed to hear it for his own peace of mind.