Anonymous

by Christine Benedict

  Chapter 45

  It was just after midnight. Planted on the edge of his bed in nothing but his underwear, Bruce was smoking a cigarette. Tattooed on his chest, the grim reaper rippled with his muscles. A viper curled at the grim reaper’s feet, and a tattoo on his abdomen said, ‘Dee’ ‘Till death us do part’. He picked up a picture of Dee, busted the glass, and ripped out her face. Then he set fire to it, holding it in his fingers until the only thing left was a miniscule corner. He stuck out his tongue and lapped up the last of the fire.

  The broken pieces of her entire ceramic rabbit collection had been swept to the corners of the bedroom so Bruce could walk barefoot without cutting his feet. Her dresser drawers had been spewed at the walls so many times that they were broken apart. Her unwanted panties and bras, and socks, her useless collection of yarn and buttons and bobby pins, and other bit-piece junk littered the floor from one end to another. He looked at the clock, burning with hate. She got off at two-thirty, a barmaid job at the Crimson Bar, almost two hours from now. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to strangle her to death. He wanted to watch her choke and gasp for breath. He wanted to watch her die. Bruce stood up with intention. Glancing at the drapes, eyeing the nylon curtain cord, he picked up the hunting knife strategically placed beside him on an overturned nightstand. He lengthened the cord just long enough to do the job and cut it down. Then he opened a black shoe polish tin, smudged his face, and looking in a mirror, marked his forehead with a pentagram. He picked up the hunting knife and ran his finger along the surface of the blade, purposely cutting his finger. He licked the blood. Dee’s would taste so much sweeter.

  He went to the kitchen and tore out the junk drawer where he had tossed the bolts from underneath Greg’s truck, and dumped the drawer on the counter. Bolts and nails and screws, pens and pencils, scribbled phone numbers on wadded paper, every key they had ever owned—the key to Dee’s Chevy Malibu.

  Bruce dressed in black right down to a hooded sweatshirt, and drove to an office building a block away from The Crimson Bar. He parked his car in back where no one would see it and took off his shoes. Without making a sound in his stocking feet, he dodged between buildings, shrouded in darkness—every thought, hating Dee. The parking lot was deserted. He unlocked her Chevy Malibu and slipped inside in the back seat where he waited, hidden on the floor, perfectly still, the cord wrapped around his fist, the hunting knife in its leather case. The car smelled like week-old beer, like an ashtray on wheels, like hairspray. Ten minutes went by, then five minutes more. Cramped on the floor, he shifted his weight and kneeled on an aerosol can. Some kind of air freshener sprayed until he could get off the thing. Hateful breaths fogged the inside of the car windows.

  Where the hell was she? He wiped off a spot on the window, big enough to see with one eye. What the fuck was taking so long? He crouched low in an awkward position, practicing the jerk of the cord. He fingered his shirt pocket for a bag of cocaine, a reward for when she was dead. Carefully lifting the zip-lock bag, he checked the seal, and put it back.

  He heard voices, and sunk as close to the floor as he possibly could. He waited. Deathly still. No one came to the car. He stayed put, playing her death in his head, losing track of time.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dee approached the car, got inside, and fished in her purse for the keys. She’d never been afraid of deserted parking lots, badly lit walkways, or being alone. Bravery had nothing to do with it. She was just stupid enough to believe that nothing would ever happen to her. From what she had told Bruce, she thought the things that her mother had warned her about only happened to somebody else.

  Dee started the car to let the engine warm up, to clear the foggy windows, and lit a cigarette.

  Bruce waited. He couldn’t do it here. Dee had said good-bye to someone. Someone else must have been in the parking lot. There would be a witness. He dared not peek out of the window again, not without someone seeing him.

  The car started to move. It would be a long ride to her mother’s house, at least a half an hour. He wrapped the cord around each hand, tight, leaving enough room for her neck. She stopped for a red light. He crept up behind her, slowly, silently. Another car stopped at the light next to Dee’s car. He slid down on the floor. He would wait for however long it took. Watching her die would be worth waiting for. The lull of the motor, the sound of rain drops, her humming to the song on the radio. Before he knew it he had fallen asleep. He abruptly awoke when she slammed the car door.

  He sat up with the nylon cord still clenched in his fists. “Fuck me.”

  The night was still, not a soul around. Bruce calculated his steps to the back of the house. He remembered a key hidden under the mat, and let himself inside. Still in his stocking feet, he followed the hallway that led to where Dee had slept before when she’d gone home to Mama. He saw the light in the bathroom and heard her brushing her teeth. He snuck to her room, slid under her bed and waited, anticipating how her body would feel, how she would squirm. Within a few minutes, Bruce could see her bare feet as she came inside. He saw the door close.

  Dee undressed. She threw her blouse on a chair and then her bra. He could see her naked in the mirror. She always slept naked. He watched her turn off the light and heard the box springs give.

  He rose up from under the bed, and smashed his hand against her mouth, forcing her under his body. Sitting on top of her, he pinned her arms down with his knees. She tried to scream, she tried to bite, thrashing, bouncing in the mattress. A yelp seeped out. He smashed down on her mouth and nose, trying to keep her still, waiting to see if she’d woken her mom. Nobody came down the hallway. Nobody opened the door. Nobody had heard her. He slipped the cord over her head, under her chin, around her neck. She clawed and squirmed beneath him, bumping, grinding. He jerked the cord hard. Her body heaving as she struggled to breathe, he kept kissing her, whispering, “So long bitch,” until she didn’t move anymore.

  He withdrew his hunting knife. Aroused beyond his wildest dreams, he satisfied erotica’s most sinful act.

  Juliet would die next, that prick’s wife. He knew how he would do it now. But he’d take his time with Debra Hamilton, an evening he would never forget. Husband Hamilton would be out of the picture, maybe dead, his truck in a heap, after what Bruce had done.

  Chapter 46

  Debra stood in the upstairs window, arms folded, looking out. It had rained during the night and the snow was almost gone. Everything looked dead from up there, the barren trees, the twigs that were once her flowers. That man had stood on this very spot, looking out this very window, whoever he was, whatever he was—like she was doing now. The outline of his body stuck in her head—his presence, him standing so close. That slip in time, her falling in slow motion, that sweet honey smell. “There are no such things as ghosts,” she said out loud.

  She opened Greg’s sock drawer where he kept a coin collection in a canning jar. No one had taken that, or anything else. It didn’t make sense, to break into someone’s house and not take anything. None of it made sense, he could have killed her if he’d wanted to. He could have killed Julie, too.

  The water pump kicked on. She jumped, startled. The chaos in the basement last night was all because of a loose fitting. The water pipe and the outtake valve on top of the hot water heater was easily fixed.

  Greg would have stayed home that morning if it hadn’t been for his truck. He would have come home that afternoon if it hadn’t been for Mr. Brubom whose brother had some sort of leak. Brubom was a good customer, and Brubom was paying cash. Greg couldn’t say no. But he did say that they would go out for a nice dinner. They were going to see the movie, ‘Amadeus’ after that.

  Greg called at ten after three. “I don’t know when I’ll be home. It took me all this time to tear off the section where the leak was, and the wood underneath is rotted. This thing had three layers of shingles and four inch nails. Now it needs new sheathing. What a bunch of rotten luck. We won’t even be able to see a movie.”

  �
��Oh,” she said quietly, repeating in her head what she wanted to believe, ‘There’re no such things as ghosts.’

  “I’d let it wait till Monday, but it’s supposed to rain again tonight. Call Julie. See what she’s doing. I don’t want you there alone.”

  “How are you going to work in the dark?”

  “This guy hooked up a spotlight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t make any supper. His wife’s cooking cabbage and noodles. I can smell them. She feels bad because I have to stay here so long. I’ll bring some home.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Julie is coming over at 4:30 to jog. I’ll see what she’s doing tonight. Maybe we’ll go out for dinner or order something.”

  “Don’t forget to bolt the doors . . . love you.”

  “Me, too.”

  Debra tore the wrapper off a new box of .22 caliber bullets, loaded the long-barrel Marlin rifle, and set it in the corner of the living room behind an old umbrella stand. She could shoot a man as well as she could a ghost. This wouldn’t stop her from being afraid. She knew herself too well for that. But she wasn’t going to give into fear. Not anymore.

  She felt a headache coming on.

  Chapter 47

  Identical twins, each vying for their own identity. Nate came dressed in Levi jeans and a blue button-up shirt. Jeff came dressed in cargo pants and a pinstriped polo. The two stepped up to a window with a glass partition where a woman in police uniform was talking on the phone with her back to them.

  “Excuse me,” Nate said, tapping the window, his heart beating so. He had defied his mother to get here today. Here in this ominous courthouse, this place where prisoners bided their time waiting for trial. This place where ‘pigs’ lived and breathed to harass guys like him.

  The woman swiveled her chair around with ‘what the hell do you want’ on her face. Purple fingernails, purple lips, unfit for this kind of work.

  “We’re Kyle Zourenger’s sons. We’re here to see him.”

  “Hold on,” she said to whoever was on the phone. “Visiting hours are over,” her curt answer.

  “But this is our only chance.”

  “Then you should have been here between one and three.” She swiveled back again, the phone to her ear.

  “Ma’am? Can you give him the message that we were here?”

  “Come back between one and three,” she said over her shoulder.

  The two college students, duffle bags in hand, had hitched a ride with another student who’d come home for his sister’s wedding. They were supposed to ride back with him again on Sunday night.

  Standing by a pay phone outside the courthouse, Nate dug deep in his jean pockets, and pulled out a wadded up dollar bill, three pennies and a nickel. “What have you got?” His army jacket was half-buttoned, his hair tousled in the wind.

  “Where’s the phone card?” Jeff’s windbreaker rippled, caught up in a gust.

  “I forgot it.”

  An RTA bus whizzed by throwing road slush leaving behind the smell of diesel exhaust.

  Jeff dug in his pockets and pulled out three one-dollar bills, a quarter, and a dime. “It’s long distance. This is all I’ve got.”

  “Give me the dime. I’ll call collect.” Nate fed the dime into the coin slot. “Do you think mom’s got any food?” The only thing they’d eaten all day was a donut. Not five dollars between them. All the trouble they’d gone to, cutting classes, bartering for a ride, starving all day, and not to mention that their mother would be pissed. All that and they still couldn’t see their dad.

  “I’d settle for peanut butter and jelly about now.”

  “Bus fifty-seven goes to North Olmsted. She can pick us up there . . . what time do you think?”

  “Tell her we’ll just call her when we get there.”

  “. . . . no one’s answering the phone.”

  “Call Grams.”

  Nate recycled the dime and dialed. They’d only known Marie as Grams, and Sam as Gramps.

  He heard Marie answer the phone, feeling sick inside. “Hello . . . .”

  The operator interrupted his hello. “I have a collect call from . . . .” This was his cue to say his name.

  “. . . Nate.”

  “Will you accept charges?” the operator prompted Marie.

  “Yes.”

  “Grams? I’m sorry I had to call collect. We’re in Elyria. If we take a bus to North Olmsted, can you pick us up? Mom’s not answering the phone.”

  “Nate. Are you all right? Why are you in Elyria?”

  “We tried to see Dad, but visiting hours are over, and when we called Mom, no one answered the phone. I’m sorry to have to ask you, but we don’t have enough money for a cab.”

  “Of course. I’ll pick you up in front of The May Company. What time, Honey?”

  “In about an hour. I’ll call when we get there, but I’ll just let it ring twice and hang up. So don’t answer the phone unless it rings three times or more. Is that okay?”

  Chapter 48

  Debra had a terrible headache. She downed two aspirins, intending to lie down just long enough for the aspirins to stop her head from throbbing. Greg wouldn’t be home for a very long time, not until well after dark. Julie was supposed to come over at four thirty, just over an hour from now. Debra checked the doors to make sure they were locked, and lay down on the couch with an afghan blanket pulled up over her shoulders.

  She closed her eyes and her breathing slowed, transcending between sleep and wakefulness. Then her muscles relaxed. Her subconscious sped up, and she began to dream.

  Debra dreamt she was in the garage. It was dark. She could see the figure of a man who was coming around the corner fast, towards the opened garage door. She dreamt she’d hit the button to close the door and the oversized slab started its slow descent. Clutching her rifle, its stock in her shoulder, her finger on the trigger, she opened her mouth to yell, to hurry that damned slowpoke door, but she couldn’t make a sound. The oversized door lumbered in slow motion. The earth seemed to shift underneath her feet. The man was running faster, faster. The door ceased to move at all.

  ‘Wake up, wake up, wake up,’ she said to her sleeping self, sweating, shaking. He was getting so close so fast. Shaking uncontrollably, she lined him up in her sites. She squeezed the trigger. Her body twitched. She’d shot him dead. Stepping into misty darkness to where he lay, she lowered her rifle, watching him for signs of life.

  Him, lying at her feet, he grabbed both her ankles at once and took her down.

  Muted screams were captive in her spit—gravel scraping her skin—her shoulder hit first, then her head. In the glare of a knife, she sucked in a breath and drew back her fist.

  Wake up, wake up, wake up!

  Suddenly Debra was in her twelve-year-old self, sitting in church, wearing her then favorite yellow dress decorated with white flowers. Her patent leather shoes, her white ankle socks, and white cotton gloves, taking her to a forgotten time. Mrs. O’Shell was playing, Sweet Hour of Prayer on the church organ. People were sitting in pews in front, and sitting in pews behind. This church had given her refuge, Mrs. O’Shell’s church. Everyone stood up and sang.

  “Sweet hour of prayer! Sweet hour of prayer! That calls me from a world of care . . .”

  Her mother was coming down the aisle now, young and beautiful, her hair dark and flowing. She scooted in next to Debra, beaming with something that looked like love. She touched Debra’s brow, her fingers smoothing a worry line. “Pray Debra. Pray real hard,” she said in her ear. Her mom faced forward now, and sang Sweet Hour of Prayer.

  The singing stopped. Her mom disappeared. The pew disappeared. Someone was carrying her out of the church. She smelled that sweet honey smell. Cradled in a policeman’s arms, the warmth of his body, the sweet smell of his breath. Even though she couldn’t see the dimensions of his face, she knew it was Ed, or at least her version of him.

  She awoke, disoriented, wrapped in the afghan in the back seat of her car, still in her
stocking feet, her rifle next to her. The car doors were locked. How did she get here? Her socks were dry. Her hair wet with sweat, she saw that part-time game warden Bruce in her yard. Coming from a wooded area where the old barn was, he seemed to be heading toward the deck. She could tell that he hadn’t seen her. How easy it would have been to shoot him from here.

  She stepped out of the car in her stocking feet. The cold-wet sent a shocking chill through her body, her afghan slipping off her shoulders. Dreary gray canvassed the sky as far as the eye could see. “Hey!” Debra yelled, placing one foot after another, her own time-stamps in the mud and snow. “What are you doing here? Damn you,” she cursed in the heat of the moment, cradling her rifle.

  “I need to use your phone,” he said, his tone sounding normal, kindly. But there wasn’t anything normal about Bruce, and he definitely wasn’t kind.

  She could see blood in his hair. “What have you done to yourself?” she asked, her words quick, her steps quicker.

  “I hit a deer down the road . . . put my car in the ditch.” He finger-tip-combed his bloody hairline. “Look at that,” he said, seeing his own blood. “I must have hit my head. I really need that phone.”

  “You said you came from down the road. You hit a deer. Then why did I see you coming out of the woods?”

  “. . . I had to piss. What do you think? Can’t you see I’m hurt?”

  Still haunted by slipstream dreams, looking as stern as her youthful face allowed. She hated this man. She hated his tattoos, his ragged jean jacket, his long hair; she hated everything about him. “There’s a phone booth a couple of miles down the road just west of here,” she said, opening the door, her back to him. Without missing a beat, she went inside. But as she tried to close the door, Bruce quick-wedged his foot inside.