Anonymous

by Christine Benedict

  It shouldn’t have gotten this far.

  He yelled her name through the house, searching every room. She wasn’t downstairs. She wasn’t upstairs. He had to warn her. He had to tell her what Bruce had done.

  Just a few weeks ago when the new Kroger’s grocery store had first opened, the traffic was heavy. The red lights conflicted and mega signs were too close to the road—a raucous day for a cop who just happened to be Jack. It was a day of too many fender benders, too many beeping horns, too many flaring tempers. A chaotic mess, all because some car had run a red light, some careless woman they’d never found. All those police reports, all those screaming yelling people. It was a day he couldn’t easily forget, a day that required vodka to wash it out of his head.

  Bruce was already there at the bar, sitting in a dark booth, his eyes dilated, his nostrils rimmed red. Jack apprehensively sat down across from him, vodka-tonic in hand. Diary-like pages were spewed on the table like used napkins, writing all over them. He could tell that Bruce was high.

  “I’ll kill her. I’ll kill that fucking whore.” Bruce flicked his cigarette lighter and started to set a handful of the pages on fire.

  Jack stopped him, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “She’s done it this time. She’s fucking some bastard.” Bruce flicked a diary page across the table. “Read it. The bastard’s Kyle . . . no last name, just Kyle. I fixed him. I fixed him good.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jack sat straight up, his jaw clenched. “Bruce, what did you do?”

  “I killed him. I went there, and I killed him.”

  “Who did you kill? Tell me! Who did you kill?”

  “Some guy in a blue house, somewhere on Jaycox. They’ll never connect it to me.” He flicked another page. “The bastard’s got a wife, Julie . . . Juliet. Like Romeo and Juliet. They both died you know. They have to die.”

  “Don’t say shit like that . . . Look at me . . . You didn’t kill anyone, and you’re not going to, either. Got that?”

  Bruce tipped back his head, looking at Jack. His black-brown eyes looked just like their father’s, cold, heartless. Jack hated that man. But he didn’t hate Bruce. Bruce hadn’t always been like this. Bruce had been more like their mother, fine, and upstanding. He’d almost died in a car accident a few years back, and he would have, if that surgeon hadn’t screwed metal plates to his skull.

  “Tell me the truth. Tell me you didn’t kill anyone.”

  “But I did. I slit his throat,” Bruce said as if he was proud of it. “I’ll kill that Kyle prick, too, and my whoring wife. And then I’ll kill Juliet, the prick’s whore.”

  “No. Listen to me. I can protect you if you stop here. Do you understand? You can’t hurt anyone else. Bruce. Promise me.”

  “I’m not going to promise shit.”

  “Promise me right now, or I’ll turn you in. You’ll get the death penalty.”

  “Don’t get all police-the-man on me. I was just talking.”

  “I didn’t hear you promise.” Jack took out his handcuffs. “I can read you your rights, right now.”

  “Okay, I promise. There, I said it.”

  Bruce’s words resonated in Jack’s head, that day and every day since. They’d kept him awake at night. They gave him nightmares on the chance he had fallen asleep. He was an accessory to the crime now. He had to make sure that Bruce didn’t get caught.

  That was weeks ago. Dee was dead now. Bruce had let the demon out. He wouldn’t stop there. Jack drove down Adams Road, hoping to find Julie out for a jog. He drove past Brentwood Pines and saw Bruce’s beat-up car, unattended, in the parking lot behind the recreation hall. He knew it. Bruce was here.

  Jack raced back to Julie’s house. He searched the house again, he searched the barn, calling her name all the while. No one was here.

  Finally, standing by the road, feverish in thought, he saw the old house across the way, beyond the gravel road . . . .

  Jack bolted across the road to Debra’s house and saw Julie’s car. Without making a sound, he looked inside the window from the front porch and saw them, the unlikely threesome frozen in place, each waiting for the other one to make a move. Knowing how easily Bruce could spook, he busted the garage door lock. Up a few steps, his hand barely touched the next doorknob and the door bobbed open to a utility room. He hustled through the utility room, through the kitchen, to where they were.

  “Bruce, let her go,” Jack spoke like he would have to a child.

  Bruce said nothing.

  “Listen to me, Bruce. I can help you, but you have to let her go.” Jack inched closer to Bruce.

  “Stay where you are,” Bruce commanded. “You’re just like the rest of them. All you care about is yourself. Just like Dee.”

  Jack stood motionless. Bruce tightened the chokehold around her throat, the knife touching her skin. Julie choked a cough, gasping for air.

  Despite the knife at her throat, Julie itch-rubbed her ringworm-infected hand hard against her pants.

  He jerked his hold around her waist. “That’s it,” Bruce said playfully. “Realign the knife. It’s not close enough, is it?” A line of blood trickled where the knifepoint pierced her skin.

  Debra chimed in. “She’s got the ugly-itch.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bruce asked.

  “You’ll never know sleepless nights until you’ve got the ugly-itch. Look at what those cats did to me. Look at the scabs on my hands.”

  “What is that?” Bruce’s gaze focused on the grotesque welts—ringworm drying up on Debra’s hand. “You got that shit on you! Don’t you? I told you not to touch those damn cats.”

  “I should have listened to you. Julie’s got it too, but hers are more contagious you know. Hers are oozing.” There was a chill in Debra’s voice, looking at Julie, willing the transference of thought between them. “Show him, Julie.”

  Julie raised her hand to give him a look, and swiped the ugly on his face.

  “You got that shit on me, bitch!” Bruce frantically swiped his face. Julie broke free.

  “I’ll kill you!” Bruce raised the hunting knife to Julie.

  “One more move, and I’ll shoot you dead!” Debra yelled. The knife stopped midair.

  Jack moved closer to Debra, extending his hand, “I’ll take over from here; give me the rifle.”

  “No. I’ll hold him here. Handcuff him.”

  Jack drew closer, open handed. “Just give me the rifle.”

  “How did you know his name?” Debra asked Jack, her eyes never leaving Bruce.

  Jack kept coming toward her, slowly, holding out his hand, dismissing her question. “I’m not playing around anymore. Hand over the weapon.”

  “How did you know his name was Bruce?”

  “He’s my brother, you stupid bitch,” Bruce answered. “Tell them, Jack. Tell them you’re not going to let anything happen to me.”

  The doorbell rang. Debra and Bruce held their gaze.

  No one moved.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Give me the rifle,” Jack insisted with his hand still extended.

  That incessant doorbell rang again. She wasn’t going to look, not even for a second. Then she heard the familiar rattle of ladders, a sound that only she would know, Greg’s truck, ladders atop. She glanced at the window for just a second. In that second, Bruce ambushed her, a backhand to her face. He swiped his knife, cutting her lip. It happened so fast. She screamed. She kicked. She fought over the rifle, hanging on to it with both hands. He swiped the knife again. She dodged the blade so close to her face, and in doing so, she fell backward, off her feet. Half on the stairs, half on the floor, holding her mouth, blood in her hand, she started to kick him again. Then, she realized he had taken the rifle. She had looked away for a second, only a second.

  Bruce . . . Julie . . . Jack, three corners of a triangle. Bruce pivoted toward Julie and cocked the rifle.

  “No! Don’t!” Jack yelled, closing the triangle fast.


  The shot rang out just as Jack plowed into Julie, toppling the two of them. Their bodies, entwined, splattered in blood, lay unmoving on the hardwood floor. Time hiccupped the scene over and over, but never divulged which one had taken the bullet.

  Bruce held his stance, the rifle warm in his hands. The slow song of anguish played in his eyes, his black-brown eyes—unblinking in clear disbelief.

  Jack rolled off Julie, holding his chest, whispering something that only she could have heard. Blood seeped between his fingers, pooling on his shirt. He closed his eyes. His head fell backward.

  “No,” Bruce uttered, looking paralyzed. His lips parted. He uttered ‘no’ again. His eyes glazed, blinking once. A third ‘no’ came out as a whisper. Reality hit. He sloppy-sobbed inside his lifted shoulder, still armed, a weapon in each hand.

  Julie scooted in slow motion to where Debra was, and very carefully leaned into her, and whispered low, “Jack said, ‘Bruce framed Kyle’.”

  Debra glanced out the window again through a blur of tears. Where was Greg?

  Greg had just come home, minutes earlier. He’d had seen the delivery boy with the Chinese food, and had gone to the porch. But just as he’d lifted his wallet to pay the boy, he heard the shot from inside the house. The delivery boy was startled so badly that he threw the takeout straight up; takeout boxes landed one by one, splattering. The boy jumped off the porch and ran to his car. Then he was gone.

  Alone on the porch, in the dark, Greg saw them through the window. He ducked down so they wouldn’t see him. Making small movements, taking short glances, he saw a thug by the bathroom door with Debra’s rifle. He saw Julie on the floor a few feet away. He saw the man who’d been shot next to her. The scene played out in proximity of the stairway where he saw Debra draped against the bottom step; her face bled through her fingers onto her blouse. He raged in quiet. He had to stay hidden. He had to get inside without anyone knowing.

  Greg headed to the garage, picturing them, picturing Debra.

  “Hi, Greg,” Nate yelled, coming up the driveway with his brother.

  “Hi, Greg.” Jeff waved overhead.

  Greg ran to them. “Go back. Call the sheriff. Tell them someone’s been shot. Tell them we need an ambulance.”

  “What . . . .”

  “Go!” Greg ordered, his rage building. Keeping his head, he headed to the garage again. He grabbed a heavy-duty pipe wrench. A flashlight, too, he went to the utility room, to the crawl-space. He lifted the plywood lid, and lowered himself inside. Adrenalin pumping, lying on his back in this narrow space of nesting spiders, he dare not make a sound. The ceiling barely three feet from the floor, he scooted inch by inch on the hard dirt until he made it to an opening on the basement wall. Climbing out of the crawl-space, into the basement, he could hear himself breathing; he could hear his own heartbeat. He crept up the stairs. At the top, he opened the door in slow motion in an all-out effort to prevent it from creaking. The door opened without a sound.

  The thug blubbered incoherently, kneeling over the man he’d shot—the rifle under his arm, his back to Greg. It seemed that Julie had made her way to Debra next to the stairs, where the two sat Indian style, their arms linked. Greg crept up behind the thug. The floorboards that usually creaked were silent.

  Debra’s eyes darted between Bruce and Greg, and an ominous wrench. Then Bruce looked up. He saw Debra’s face, the direction of her eyes; and from where he was kneeling, he stabbed Greg in the ribs. Debra screamed Greg’s name, feeling the knife slice through his ribs, too. She stood up with a start, but Julie pulled her back down.

  As if he couldn’t believe it, Greg looked at the knife wound, at the blood. The wrench still in his hand, he fell to his knees. Bruce stabbed him again.

  “Greg!” Debra screamed his name, unable to move because Julie was holding her down, bruising her arm to keep her in place. The wrench fell first. Then Greg. From the distance, there was an echo of sirens. The sirens grew louder, closer. Any minute now—they waited. But just as quickly as the sound came, it left, and passed right by the house, echoing back through a tunnel of sound until it diminished all together.

  Bruce stood up. He wiped his snot. Securing the rifle to fire at will, he walked brisk paces over to Julie.

  Debra prayed, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .” The calm before imminent death. The mind goes to a place when deep in prayer. She knew this place—this dying calm. Her mother’s face wafted in like a dream, her haunting words. ‘Pray, Debra. Pray real hard.’

  Bruce placed the tip of the barrel against Julie’s temple.

  “Dear Lord, look down upon us sinners. Spare us oh Lord . . . .” Debra prayed out loud. She prayed in earnest.

  “Shut up!” Bruce yelled. Then he cocked the rifle.

  “. . . in Jesus name I pray . . . .”

  Julie shut her eyes tight, her hand in Debra’s, holding on for dear life. The room lit up, red and blue lights from outside, bouncing off the walls.

  “. . . please help us Lord. I pray. In Jesus name please help us Lord. I pray . . . .”

  Out of nowhere, a police officer rushed in from the kitchen; his uniform, a freshly pressed navy blue, his hair, a scrubbed crew cut. “Police officer! Drop your weapon!” he shouted, his gun drawn.

  Bruce turned the rifle on the officer and fired. The shot struck the clean-shaven officer and he fell backwards into a dark room. Almost instantly two more officers in gray shades of blue ran from the kitchen. Guns were drawn. Shots were fired. Debra shielded her face in her hands, jolted by every shot. And then she looked through her hands. A bullet hit Bruce under his eye. He dropped to his knees on her level, face to face. A bullet hit his forehead. He fell forward on Debra’s lap. She didn’t scream. She didn’t move.

  Almost as if she were vacant, as if she wasn’t there, Debra sunk into herself like she had so many times as a child, frozen in place, staring at nothing; the aftermath of shock and surprise—like a great fall where you stay perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid you are broken.

  Julie, crying in hysterics, shoved Bruce off Debra’s lap. She hugged Debra tight, taking in the whole of her body.

  “Call for an ambulance!” one of the officers shouted.

  Debra’s breathing was shallow, rapid. Julie pulled back. “Deb . . . Deb,” she said shaking Debra’s shoulders.

  Debra didn’t respond.

  “I’ve got a pulse over here,” One of the officers yelled.

  Julie shouted at Debra, shaking her harder. “Deb. You’re scaring me . . . Deb!”

  Debra took in this fair Irish face, the laugh lines around these freckled eyes, this woman who was her friend. Reality clicked.

  “Greg.” Horror stricken all over again she bounded to Greg—ten feet away. He was barely breathing. “Greg. No. Greg,” she said, holding his face in her trembling hands, sniffing back the tears.

  Paramedics arrived in two groups of three, breaking up into two-man teams, gravitating to each of the critically wounded. A paramedic knelt down beside Greg.

  Debra spoke up, her hair tear-plastered to her face, “He stabbed him . . . he stabbed him twice.” Her lip was swollen, so swollen that it had stopped bleeding. Julie was close beside her.

  A paramedic pressed his fingers into Greg’s neck. “Systolic 80, pulsac 40,” he said to his partner. He turned to Debra, “Are you family?”

  “I’m his wife.”

  “He has a low pulse. We’re going to give him some oxygen,” he said, slipping a facemask over Greg’s head. He pushed into Greg’s breastplate and rubbed deep. “Sir. I need you to wake now. Sir. I need you to open your eyes for me.” Another paramedic lined up a backboard next to Greg, and both of them eased Greg onto it. “He’s not responding.” They lifted the backboard to a gurney. Debra heard someone in the background pronounce Bruce dead. “. . . the time, seven twelve.”

  She took Greg’s face in her hands, crying all the while. “Greg,” she said. “Look at me. Come on honey. Please.�
�� She squeezed his hand. “Please,” she cried, “Greg look at me.”

  Greg squeezed her fingers.

  They were moving Jack outside on a gurney, a facemask, too. Things were happening so fast. Three men down, one dead, blood everywhere. The fifteen-by-twenty living room was a war zone.

  The paramedic checked Greg’s pulse again. “Pulse is strong.”

  Julie’s eyes wandered the room, quizzical, like she was searching for someone. She was standing a foot away from Debra when one of the officers approached her.

  “You should have a paramedic look at that,” The policeman said, handing her an ice pack.

  “What happened to the first officer? I don’t see him anywhere.” Julie said. “Did he make it?”

  “What do you mean, ma’am? I was the first one here.” The officer reached around her as he spoke, handing an ice pack to Debra, too.

  An edge of agitation in her voice, Julie said, “No. The officer who came in before you did? I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”

  “I don’t understand. It’s just me and my partner.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. He was shot . . . right over there. Young, heavyset, he was the one wearing a dark blue uniform.”

  “You’re mistaken. Our uniforms haven’t been that color for a long time. You’ve been through a lot today.”

  Debra was still upset, but not so upset that she didn’t hear the rhetoric going on between Julie and the officer, and interjected, “Yes, we have been through a lot today. But I saw him, too.”

  A paramedic interrupted them. “Officer Clark, I need you to sign off on this.” The officer took the clipboard, “Excuse me,” and tended to his duty across the room.

  Julie trailed off to the darkened room where the young officer had taken her bullet, the closest room to the kitchen, which was the dining room.

  The paramedics were strapping Greg to the gurney, packing him up. They’d said that he was stable. They’d said that it was possible for the knife to have missed his vital organs. Debra kissed him. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and went to find Julie.