Blister

by Strand, Jeff

  Allen shook his head. "No, I'm not."

  "Allen, he slashed up her face with a straight razor. He burned her with a blowtorch. Are you really saying that she deserved it? There is no level of blue balls where what he did was right."

  "I'm not saying she deserved everything. But she ruined his life."

  "How long were you and Brandon friends?"

  "Since second grade."

  "So you'd been best friends for about ten years. I completely understand why you'd take his side. People do god-awful things sometimes, and that doesn't mean their family and friends abandon them. I admire your devotion to Brandon, I really do."

  "He had big plans," said Allen. "He was going to get out of this shithole town. He would've taken her, too. Would've married her. Right now they'd be rich and happy and have two or three kids and she destroyed that life they could have had."

  "We're starting to veer back into blaming the victim."

  "I'll never stop blaming her."

  "Then I'll quit trying to change your mind. You've said your piece, I've said mine, and I think we understand each other a little better now. So how about you stop the truck, let me out, and we'll go our separate ways?"

  "I'll never see you around here again?" Allen asked.

  "Never."

  "I don't mean a year from now. I mean never."

  "You will never lay eyes on me again."

  "And you won't call the sheriff on me?"

  "That's right."

  "Then what I'm hearing from you, right now, at this moment, is that you think I'm stupid."

  "No," I said. "I just want to go home and pretend this never happened. I want to put this whole trip behind me. It was all a mistake. You're right, none of this is my business."

  "You're saying what you think I want to hear."

  "I'm not saying that I want to leave. I'm saying that you've convinced me that it's in my best interest to leave. The gun and kidnapping thing worked. A job well done. You put enough of a scare into me that I don't want anything more to do with this place. Stop the truck, let me out, and it's over."

  Allen did not stop the truck.

  "It would be nice if it were that easy, wouldn't it?" he asked.

  "Why can't it be?"

  "As soon as you brought her out there, reminded everybody about her, you unburied shit that's not going to go back in the grave. If you had listened to me the first time, if you'd just left, things would've been okay, but I know damn well that you're only promising not to tell anybody because I've got a gun pointed at you. As soon as you're safe, you'll tell."

  "How can I convince you that I won't?"

  "You can't."

  "Then we're at an impasse."

  "No, we're not. You're acting like I care what promises you make. I don't. Your fate is already sealed, Jason Tray, and let me tell you, you are fucked."

  "And now I don't believe you," I said. "There's no reason we can't talk this out. It's ridiculous to let it go any further."

  "Is it? How about I raise the stakes? I burned down your cabin. I was smart about it, but if they do a thorough investigation I'm sure they'll figure out that it was done on purpose. See what I just did? I confessed to a crime. If I let you go, you'll tell somebody. Don't pretend you won't."

  Was this the right time to go for his gun? Or unfasten my seatbelt, fling open the door, and hope that I was able to jump out of the truck without getting shot?

  I gave myself maybe a one in a hundred chance of getting the gun away from him before he pulled the trigger, and that might've been optimistic. I wasn't quite there yet. Maybe if he hit a bump...

  "You said you weren't going to kill me."

  "That's right."

  "So..."

  "So either I'm lying my ass off, or I have other plans."

  As the road curved to the left, I saw where it ended: in front of a small cabin. It was a rickety looking, unpainted piece of crap that didn't even look like it would meet the quality standards of a meth den.

  "Did Blister tell you where it happened?" he asked.

  "She said it was in a cabin."

  "Did she say which one?"

  "No."

  "But I bet you've figured it out now, huh?"

  Allen stopped in front of the cabin. He put the truck into park and turned off the engine.

  "Brandon's family owned this cabin. We used to come out here and read Playboy. That was when we were maybe twelve or thirteen. I'd forgotten that we'd hidden them under the floorboards, but the cops found a bunch of them when they investigated the crime scene. Would've been embarrassing, except that everybody was focused on other stuff, obviously. The cabin doesn't get a lot of use these days. You can understand why Brandon's mom and dad don't want to be here, and the cabin where a girl was mutilated is a tough sell for a realtor, so they just kind of let it rot. I come here sometimes to think." He unfastened his seatbelt, keeping the gun pointed at me.

  "Allen, what are we doing here?" I asked.

  "You should keep asking questions. You really should, because I said I'd shoot you if you asked questions, and getting shot is way better than what's going to happen to you. So ask away. What do you want to know? Ask me anything."

  I was silent.

  "Get out of the truck," Allen told me.

  He got out at the same time. If I sprinted and made it to the woods, I might be able to escape, but I'd have to run about a hundred feet to make it to something resembling cover.

  Was Allen a good shot or a bad shot?

  He struck me as somebody who enjoyed hunting.

  Shit. I didn't want to die, and I most assuredly didn't want to get shot in the leg and dragged inside for whatever nightmare he had planned. What the hell was I going to do?

  By the time I decided it was too risky to flee, it was too late anyway. Allen was right next to me.

  "Walk over to the door," he told me.

  I walked over to it. Maybe one of the drivers who'd passed us had been suspicious. Maybe Sheriff Baker was on his way at this very moment, and if I could keep Allen occupied for a few extra minutes, he'd arrive and save my ass.

  Yeah, right. Nobody was going to save me.

  I suddenly realized that I was very close to dropping to my knees and begging for mercy. I desperately hoped I could keep myself from doing that. I didn't want to go out that way. I wanted to keep my dignity.

  Why hadn't I taken him more seriously? Why hadn't I gone back inside the bar and called the sheriff?

  I stood in front of the door. There was a pretty big gap between two of the boards, but it was too dark inside for me to see anything.

  "Don't open it quite yet," said Allen. "First, I'm going to raise the stakes again. I've got a story to tell."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Brandon is sobbing. "I can't believe I did it."

  He's said this over and over, at least ten times now. Allen isn't good at consoling people in their time of need, and he can't figure out what he should be doing to help.

  "It'll be okay," he says.

  "No, it won't! Aren't you even listening to me?" He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his suit. "I'm gonna go to jail."

  "We won't let that happen," Allen assures him.

  "I just...I just lost control of myself. Like somebody else took over my body. It was like I wasn't even there when it happened."

  "At least you know you didn't get her pregnant," says Allen, in a failed attempt to lighten the mood. Up until a few weeks ago, when she'd dumped him for a football player, Allen had been screwing Sara Black every Tuesday and Thursday night, when her mom worked the late shift. It was great fun, but he'd lost a lot of sleep thinking about the possibility that he might accidentally knock her up.

  This was supposed to be an incredible night for his buddy. There were plenty of other girls at school who would've spread their legs for Brandon, or at least blown him, but no, Mr. Lame-Ass Romantic had to be with a prude like Rachel. They'd been together for over a year. A year! And she backed out on him?<
br />
  What did she think he was going to do?

  Of course he smacked her head against the dashboard.

  Allen would've done a lot worse.

  A lot worse.

  "What am I going to do when she wakes up?" asks Brandon. "What am I going to say? I should take her to the hospital."

  "Don't do that," says Allen. "It's just a bump on the head. She'll be okay."

  "What if she has a concussion?"

  "She doesn't."

  "You don't know that! I knocked her unconscious!" Brandon buries his face in his hands and sobs like a goddamn baby. Allen hates Rachel for turning his best friend into this pathetic, sniveling wreck.

  What was her problem? The clown jewelry was funny. It had been Allen's idea. They'd had an even funnier idea for later, but Brandon had called it off because he thought Rachel might be too mad.

  Brandon stands up. "I'm taking her to the hospital."

  "That's a bad idea."

  "She could be hurt."

  "What do you think her dad will do to you when he finds out?"

  Brandon looks physically ill. "He's going to find out, no matter what. What if she's got internal bleeding in her brain or something, and he finds out I didn't take her straight to the emergency room?"

  "No. Brandon, no." Allen stands up as well. "Rachel needs to understand that you weren't in your right mind. It's her fault. If she talks to a nurse, or her dad, or anybody else, they'll completely turn her against you. Even if she wants to forgive you, they won't let her."

  Brandon nods. "You're right, they won't," he says. "What am I gonna do? She'll probably lose it when she wakes up and sees me. She won't talk to me. I know she won't talk to me. Why would she? I fucking hurt her. I never thought I would do something like that. It all happened in that one second. Just one second."

  "Calm down."

  "I can't!"

  "I mean it."

  "I'm going to jail!"

  "Will you stop it?" Allen considers slapping his friend across the face, but decides against it. "Rachel likes me, right?"

  "Yes."

  "So I'll talk to her. If you leave, then maybe I can talk to her without her getting all emotional, and I can convince her that she should keep quiet about what happened."

  "You want me to go home?"

  "No. Go someplace where you won't have to talk to anybody. Just someplace where you can chill out and compose yourself."

  "I don't know."

  "If you don't like the idea, I'm not going to force you. I'm not the one who's looking at prison time for assault. But I'm the only person who will be on your side, so I'm the only person who can convince her to do the right thing."

  "Yeah." Brandon sniffles and then wipes his nose on his sleeve again. "Yeah, I think that's what we should do. You talk to her. It's just what you said—she likes you. You two are friends, right? I consider you two friends. She might listen to you."

  "We'll move her to my car," says Allen. "I can't lie to you, though. If she asks me to take her to the hospital, I'm going to, no questions asked. I can't become an accessory."

  "Yeah, yeah, that's okay, I get that." Brandon nods rapidly, jiggling a line of snot that's dangling from his nose. "That might work. It really might work."

  Together they put Rachel in the front seat of Allen's car. There's a pretty awful red bump on her forehead that will have to be explained, but she can say she bonked her head getting into the car. Allen has seen her be clumsy before.

  Brandon throws his arms around Allen. "Thank you so much," he says. Allen doesn't like to be hugged, even by women, but he tolerates it.

  "Go," he says. "Get out of here. I'll call you when I know what's going on."

  "How will you call me? I won't be home."

  "Just go, all right? She could wake up any minute."

  Brandon gets in his car and drives away from the clearing in the woods where he was supposed to be getting laid for the first time. He should've left this place worrying about premature ejaculation, not prison time.

  Allen gets into his own car and looks at Rachel. It's kind of concerning that she hasn't woken up yet. Maybe she won't wake up at all.

  Maybe that would be better for Brandon.

  Allen doesn't believe for one second that he can talk Rachel out of telling anybody. She's not the kind of girl who will say, "Yes, my boyfriend physically assaulted me, but he was really horny, so I'll cut him some slack."

  He doesn't know what kind of prison sentence this crime might carry. Maybe none at all. Maybe just community service. But it's certainly something that will destroy Brandon's future.

  Rachel likes Allen, as far as he knows, but he's always hated her.

  Stuck-up bitch.

  It won't be any great loss if she disappears.

  It will be a great gain for Allen if she suffers. He's always wanted to do something like this.

  When would he ever get this opportunity?

  Never, right?

  It was hard enough to find stray cats.

  Brandon's cabin was only about ten minutes away. It would've been a nice, private place to screw Rachel, but she thought the cabin was disgusting...which, to be fair, it was.

  Allen wouldn't screw her—he'd never screw his best friend's girlfriend, even if she was definitely an ex-girlfriend now—but he'd make good use of the privacy.

  * * *

  The clown suit feels perfect.

  He wants to speak, wants to taunt her, but he also wants Rachel to die thinking that her agony is coming from somebody she loves.

  Also, from a more practical standpoint, he can't guarantee that nobody will hear Rachel. If somebody shows up, he'll be glad his identity was hidden.

  So many taunts.

  So many things he wants to say to her as he slashes at her face, but he forces himself to remain silent and simply enjoy her reaction.

  The razor looks so much better slicing across her face than it ever did with the cats. No fur to hide the wounds.

  Most of her face is red. He'd love to cut her eyes, but if she's blind, she can't see the scary clown, and what fun is that?

  Brandon is missing out.

  He sets the razor aside and picks up the blowtorch. Oh, the cats hated the blowtorch. Rachel probably wouldn't be too keen on it, either.

  Allen can't stop himself from giggling as he burns her flesh, but she can't hear him over the hiss of the blowtorch and the sound of her own muffled shrieks.

  He hopes she doesn't choke on the rag he shoved into her mouth. He'd tested the rag on himself, seeing if he pack it in his mouth tightly enough that he couldn't get it out without using his hands. He could have just taped it, but there'd be less available surface area to burn.

  Her face is totally ruined. It won't matter that she's unwilling to put out—nobody will want to have sex with her ever again.

  What was that?

  Allen turns off the blowtorch and walks over to the window. He thought he'd heard a car, but he doesn't see any headlights.

  Now he's panicked. What the hell is he doing? How is he going to get away with this? How did he ever think he would get away with this?

  I'm insane, he thinks. I am really, truly, genuinely insane.

  He curses under the mask. He missed a couple of spots on Rachel's face, but the moment is over, the mood destroyed. He needs to slash open her throat and get out of here.

  No. Wait. He doesn't need to kill her. He'll let Brandon take the blame. His subconscious mind had already worked it out. That's why Allen was wearing the costume in the first place.

  It would be really shitty to do this to his friend, but things will never be the same between them anyway. Brandon made his own choice.

  Yeah, he'd let Brandon take the fall. Brandon will tell everybody that Allen did it, of course, but if he leaves Rachel alive, her testimony will sink Brandon. Allen knows that he can hold up under interrogation, no problem.

  He hurries out of the cabin. He takes off the clown costume and tosses it into the trun
k of his car, along with the straight razor and blowtorch. Then he gets into his car and drives away.

  * * *

  Idiot! Idiot! Fucking idiot!

  Allen cannot believe his own stupidity. His mind is so rattled that he's making mistake after mistake. He deserves to get caught.

  He should have just tried to talk to her. Explain Brandon's side of the story. And if she did flip out, he should have taken her to the hospital so she could get her head checked out.

  No, he shouldn't even have tried to talk to her. He should've taken her straight to the hospital. To hell with Brandon.

  Instead, he'd transformed into a psychopath, and who knew how much evidence he'd left behind in the cabin? Yeah, he'd taken the weapons with him, and any footprints would've been left by the clown shoes that he was going to destroy, but what about the tire tracks? What if he'd lost an eyelash?

  Allen holds his hand over his mouth, trying to keep from throwing up.

  * * *

  He walks deep into the woods and buries everything.

  He'll never do this again. It's not worth the anguish. He won't even kill another goddamn cat.

  He goes home, sick and dizzy, waiting for the cops to show up.

  They don't.

  In fact, he never hears from Brandon again.

  The son of a bitch ran away.

  Allen keeps waiting for Brandon to contact him, or for somebody to realize that they made a mistake. But Rachel says it was Brandon, and since Brandon has disappeared, there's no reason for anybody to seek out alternate suspects.

  Still, every day Allen checks the mail half-expecting to receive a letter that says, "I Know It Was You!"

  None ever arrives, of course.

  It takes several months for him to stop having nightmares, but then Rachel finally gets out of the hospital, and goes home to live with her father, and the nightmares start again.

  Did he leave some clue? Will something click in her mind, making her realize that he was the one who turned her into a monster?

  Five years after that night, he's almost able to forget about what he did.