Closet Full Of Bones

by A. J. Aalto

  Gillian knew better than to fall for that and held her tongue.

  “How’s that for a deal?” Bobby called, shuffling closer. “Best deal you’re gonna get tonight, I promise you that, bitch. Only fucking deal you’re gonna get.”

  Gillian heard a creak in the hall, another soft footfall, and knew Bobby was passing the room to go directly into the kitchen. Seeing stars, Gillian paused for a second to take a few slow, steadying breaths, and then came back out into the dark room, revising her kitchen exit plan. She’d have to run in behind Bobby and catch her unawares, hoping she didn’t have to stop and spend precious seconds unlocking the back door. She was maybe twenty running strides from freedom, tops. She could do this.

  Pressing into that dark corner behind the door, she listened with her heart hammering in her chest as Bobby’s steps, quiet but audible, left the hardwood of the hall and hit the tile in the kitchen. Let her get a bit further. Wait. Hold on. Out the door, around the side yard to Bruce’s truck. Get the phone. Call for help.

  Gillian pumped herself up for her sprint, willing her body not to fail her, demanding high performance. No slips, no falls, no pain; she wouldn't allow it. Hands clammy and trembling, mouth dry, she counted down from five, listening to the warning sirens screaming in her head.

  It was then that she heard the groan. Bruce! It was coming from the kitchen. Rustling. Shuffling, a slap, like a palm hitting tile.

  She slipped quietly out to see him lying passed out on the kitchen floor next to the breakfast bar. Wary of Bobby’s passage, she crouched near him. She didn’t know if he could hear her or not, but she leaned over and whispered, “I’m going to get help, hold on.” She took his key ring off his belt loop and crept to the back door. It was already unlocked. She fought the urge to rip it open, but as soon as the cold air hit her face and freedom was at hand, she couldn’t hold back anymore and bolted.

  Her foot hit something soft but unmoving and she tripped over it, flying forward down the porch steps. She instinctively threw both hands out in front of her face, and the jolt hit her bad arm. An unwanted yelp of pain shot from her mouth. Scrambling up, she craned back at the porch to see what was lying there.

  A strange man. Blood. No time to think.

  Bobby’s hate-filled roar rushed toward the back door. Gillian launched into flight, pelting into the dark garden, heading desperately for the closest solar light, a barely-lit beacon in the night. At the last minute, she jumped, her heart in her throat, leaping the bear trap buried in the overgrown mint. Bobby ploughed right through it.

  Gillian heard the wet snap of bone. Bobby’s shriek was high and airy, full of a primal agony. Gillian landed and sprawled again, this time knee-deep in a wiry old thyme bush. She rolled onto her back panting, holding her aching shoulder, all the pain flooding back through a haze of adrenaline. She wept up at the black sky. Is Travis dead? Will Bruce be okay? Is that Paul’s man Beaner on the back porch? Is it over?

  She got her answer soon enough, but it wasn't what she expected.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sunday, November 2. 8:35 P.M.

  Bobby panted and hissed, seemingly unable to scream for her pain. She snarled through her agony and threw her baseball bat in a final effort to punish Gillian, but Gillian was beyond that. She could see a figure moving through the shadowy back garden, and at first, it made no sense. She could hear the tinkle of crystals and the jingle of her favorite dangling earrings, the metal clink of bronze and copper bangles on her slim wrists. The breeze blew Frankie’s blonde curls over one shoulder.

  For a second, Gillian nearly wilted with relief at the sight of her sister, but then she saw Henry behind her; the gun in his hand didn’t immediately register as a threat until he pointed it at Gillian’s head.

  “Well, that was messy,” Henry said with disappointment. “This is what you call taking care of things? Stupid crazy bitch.”

  Gillian floundered until she realized that Henry wasn’t talking to her.

  Bobby sobbed. “It hurts, it hurts! Get it offfffff. It hurts ithurtsithurts.”

  Frankie’s expression crumbled when Gillian gaped up at her. She half-sobbed, “He’s got the boys, Gills. I don’t know where they are.”

  “You were supposed to deal with this,” Henry snapped at Bobby, ignoring the sisters. “And now you’re going to fucking whine to me? You ran into a bear trap, moron. Of course it fucking hurts.”

  “Frankie—” was all Gillian could manage.

  There was another shadow in the dark yard, moving just behind Henry and Frankie, but Gillian couldn’t bear to tear her eyes off her baby sister, standing there frozen and terrified. Gillian swallowed and heard a dry click in her throat.

  “Bobby killed Mike Deacon,” Gillian said finally. “Frankie, you told me I did it. The fall. You told me you put him in the freezer to protect me.”

  “And you bought it,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. “Get over it already. Gawd, you’re such a fucking whiner. You’ve always been such a fucking whiner, Gillian.”

  “Let Frankie go to the boys. Let them go,” she begged.

  “I'm going to have to go with no,” Henry said, and then barked a short, ugly laugh. “That’s not part of the plan, darlin’.”

  Gillian swallowed her horror to ask, “Why are you doing this?”

  Henry ignored that and asked Bobby, “Okay, where are we going to put her? We have to hurry before Travis shows up. This isn’t going to work if he—”

  “Travis is dead,” Gillian interrupted. “Bobby killed him. Inside. In the dining room. With a baseball bat.”

  Henry’s lips thinned and his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “She what?”

  “Was that not the plan?” Gillian asked, dreading the answer, trying to figure out what Henry could possibly be up to. Of course. Bobby and Henry were going to kill her and frame Travis. The police would buy it; Travis had been legitimately stalking her. Or had he? How much of it had been Bobby setting things up? Did she leave me notes? She had access to Frankie’s house, as did Henry. Did Bobby write the end of the orange diary? Did Henry?

  Bobby moaned and let out a throaty gurgle. Henry looked down at her with disgust, aimed, and fired once. Chunks of what had been Bobby's head hit the mint an instant before the rest of her did. Gillian let out a breathy squeak and crammed her eyes shut, waiting for the next bullet to tear through her. When it didn’t, she peeked up to see Frankie vomiting in the basil, bent over with the force of it.

  “You’re a goddamn sociopath, Henry Farmer,” Gillian said. “What do you want?”

  “You say sociopath like it’s a bad thing,” he drawled, his wrist flopping the gun from side to side like a wagging finger. “You know what’s funny? You actually believe I give a shit what you think. Now, it would help enormously if I had that body, please.”

  “I don’t know where Bobby put it,” Gillian lied.

  “I’d rather have that body floating around linking my dearest ex-wife to a murder, lady,” Henry said. “I need Frankie. I don’t need you.”

  Gillian moved her hand slowly behind her in the dark, scraping her fingertips into the cold, hard dirt; November had begun to stiffen the ground, and the soil beneath the crispy, frost-damaged herbs was gritty. She watched her ex-brother-in-law roll his eyes up at the night sky and sigh as though heavily burdened; the wind shifted, and Gillian caught a sharp hint of blood and something worse from Bobby’s direction, but she tried desperately not to think about what that might be. Dark memories of moving Mike Deacon’s frozen torso from the back of her Jeep to the ATV at Pleasant Pines assaulted her. That was not my doing. I did not kill that man. Her guilt was stubborn, though, and it insisted, you tried. You intended to. You wanted him gone. You pushed him. You did the wrong thing more than once. His death is on you.

  She vowed she would call Constable Jagger and confess her crimes if she got out of this alive; even though that did not seem likely. Henry began muttering under his breath as Frankie’s sobbing returned; he snarled somethi
ng about incompetence and mental fragility, and brought his attention back to Gillian. He clucked his tongue as though considering his next move. Gillian folded the hard, cold dirt in her left hand; she only needed a few seconds.

  Gillian shot her gaze quickly past Frankie’s left side with a faked expression of relief. Henry bought it, glancing there angrily. Gillian used her good arm to fling the dirt just as Henry looked back. Some of the dirt caught Frankie but most of it pelted Henry in the face. Gillian launched up, panic making her reckless. She lunged at Frankie and threw her to the ground, then rounded to bat with both hands at Henry’s gun. Frankie’s cry of surprise did nothing to help. Gillian barreled into Henry full speed. He squinted, shaking his head to clear the dirt, but there was enough in his eyes to confuse his sight. The gun swung wildly. Gillian used her good hand to chop at Henry’s wrist. He brought the gun up to pistol whip the side of her skull.

  Gillian swooned, seeing stars, but managed to keep her feet. She brought her knee up for a groin shot. He blocked her with his thigh. Frankie flew up from the ground, baring her fingernails like claws, slashing at Henry’s face. Gillian bared her teeth and locked onto Henry’s wrist, bearing down hard. He shouted sharply and tried to shake her off, using his free hand to punch out half-blindly at both sisters. There were lights, headlights, someone pulling in. Gravel crunching. Doors slamming. Frankie clawed and kicked and the gun went off, deafening next to Gillian’s head. The kick made her jaws release and she fell back. A strange male voice shouted in the distance. Frankie moved in on her ex-husband in a flurry of chiffon and feathered hair and flying hands. The gun went off again, two sharp reports in the night.

  Frankie fell back, her face falling, her mouth a silent, perfect O. A horrifying scarlet spot bloomed and spread across her abdomen through the diaphanous fabric.

  Gillian snapped, felt the gut-deep tug of retribution and murderous temper and gave herself over to it. She snatched the solar light from the cold ground. Heard that male voice shouting something over and over, repeating whatever command it was. Knew it was a cop. Ignored it. Clutching the solar light, sharp end out, she darted forward at Henry. The cop bellowed. Repeated. Henry dropped the gun, raised both hands. A flashlight beam swung back and forth behind him, turning his lean body into a dark target. She felt the rage swell and the power behind it felt glorious. She thrust the sharp rod forward but at the last minute aimed lower, driving it through denim and into Henry’s meaty thigh.

  Henry howled and dropped, flesh sliding off the metal rod with a sucking sound as he fell. Gillian folded her hand around it and raised it above her head for a finishing blow. Locked in on the back of Henry’s neck. Aimed for raised vertebrae and the soft tissue between. Heard Dean Jagger call her name. The rustle of a gun leaving a holster.

  But it was Bruce’s shout, “Gillian Hearth, drop it!” that stalled her, made her blink with surprise.

  She’d never heard him raise his voice. She cut her eyes at the back porch, where Bruce leaned unsteadily against the railing. Gillian vaguely registered the quick movement of Dean Jagger in her peripheral vision, felt a rough hand on hers, tugging gently at the solar light.

  “Let’s have that,” Dean Jagger said softly next to her ear. “C’mon, it’s all over now. Let me take care of it.”

  Gillian felt a shudder go through her and her core went cold as ice. She released her grip on the light and Dean whisked it away before bending to snap cuffs on Henry Farmer and call for an ambulance. When he started reading off Frankie’s injury, Gillian’s shock began to fade enough for her to feel fear.

  She whipped around and hurried to her knees beside her sister’s fallen form.

  A moment later, Gillian’s agonized shriek lanced through the night.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Wednesday, November 5. 10:10 A.M.

  The snow was gritty, flying directly into their faces as they strode through the frozen weeds and across hard, uneven ground. Her work boots scuffed a layer of hoarfrost off the soil in a pair of parallel tracks. She had always made an effort to hide her passage, had never dreamed of having company on the grim walk.

  When they hit the tree line, Gillian took the lead, covering the last few hundred feet by memory, spotting the rose bush under the trees. Stripped of leaves by the cold wind, sprawling out in the shade, laden with rosehips, the rose protected her secret well. Tangled in its roots would be a ribcage, a length of spine, collarbones. Gillian had skeletons in her closet, but she’d placed them here to rest, wallowing in her guilt and shame, trying for years to justify it to herself.

  She turned to say something to the silent cop behind her and found him watching her with quiet calculation; the look on his face — a combination of disappointment, resolve, and frustration — took any attempts to launch some sort of defense right out of her mouth. There was no excusing this and she wouldn't try.

  Instead, she said, “It was about the insurance money, wasn’t it?”

  The stolid cop didn’t answer her; it was far too soon to know, and she was the last person on Earth he’d be confiding in. At least, not before her trial.

  “Yeah,” she said, answering the unspoken agreement she imagined, nodding to herself. “Henry always was horrible with his own money. I bet he owed a bookie some heavy cash. My sister had nothing, but if I was dead, she’d inherit everything I owned. The new house, the money I’d collected from Greg’s death. I don’t know how he figured he’d get Fr—” Her voice broke and she couldn’t say Frankie’s name. Tried again. “My sister to give him anything. Maybe he thought they’d get back together if he sweet talked her. Used the boys as leverage. And how he got Bobby to help him, I’ll never know. Especially not now that she can’t tell…”

  Dean let her talk, tucking his hands in his pockets to keep warm and keeping his face blank.

  “I shouldn’t be talking about any of this without my lawyer present, should I?” she said, not sounding especially concerned.

  Dean’s lips turned up in a sad half-smile that was barely more than a brief shrug. “I can’t advise you on that, Mrs. Ellis. Hearth. Ms. Hearth.”

  Behind Dean Jagger, near a gully at the north end of Pleasant Pines cemetery, a crew worked with police to lower forensics into the space safely to retrieve the skull and the chainsaw that Gillian had used to dismember Mike Deacon’s frozen body in her sister’s basement.

  “I heard from Bruce. He’s doing better,” she offered. “Says he’s got too hard a head to incur any lasting damage.” She gave a soft, defeated laugh. “What about Paul’s fellow, Beaner?”

  “He’s pulling through. Just a knock on the head and injured pride.”

  “Pride? Whatever for?” Gillian said.

  “He was there to protect you,” Dean said. “He got clocked from behind from one of the people he was meant to look out for.”

  Gillian sighed. “Is Travis Freeman going to pull through? Paul Langerbeins told me that he might?”

  Dean’s shoulders fell but he remained silent on that score, too.

  Gillian read his body language. “Well, shit. Colin. Bobby. Travis. My Fran… Frankie.” She got the name out this time, but not without her breath hitching. Her eyes filled with the hot sting of tears but she bit down fiercely on her bottom lip and refused to let them spill. “I still have no idea why Colin was dead in my yard. That makes no sense at all.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Dean said confidently, giving no indication if he believed her confusion or not.

  She took a deep, shaky breath and let it out harshly. “He’s under the rose. Mike Deacon, I mean.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Dean said.

  “I should have told you sooner,” she said. “I should have told someone right away.”

  He didn’t argue that. “How’d you keep the animals from digging him up?”

  “Rat poison upon burial,” she said quietly. “And I laid branches of the common buckthorn tree above the mulch around the rose. In time, the rose’s own thorns made a good d
eterrent. This species is bristling with them.”

  “Where are the buckthorn branches now?”

  I moved them so I could see a bone that had been heaved up by the freezing ground, she thought but carefully did not say. I wanted to see it. I needed to see it. “My sister’s diaries are full of misinformation,” she told him. “But I suppose you already have an analyst looking at the handwriting inconsistencies. Bobby stole them. Wrote lies in them. Delivered a couple to Travis to bait him into a confrontation and to use as evidence of trouble between us. There were more than two stolen. She must have kept a couple of them.”

  Dean’s mouth did that lip shrug again.

  “I didn’t bury Mike Deacon because I was covering Bobby’s crime,” Gillian said. “I didn’t know she killed him. I thought I had. I buried him to protect myself.”

  “I believe you,” he said, and glanced over his shoulder as voices approached over the squawk of police radios. A line of evidence technicians were approaching with a trio of cops from the homicide division, their breaths fogging in the November air. “Anything else you’d like to tell me before we hand the scene over?”

  “Henry must have promised Bobby that she could remain in their lives, in Frankie’s life, but only if she helped him,” Gillian said, reluctant to call an end to this. She’d be seeing her lawyer next, a man who reminded her of a hound dog with his long, dour face and did nothing to reassure her that her punishment would be light. She was preparing for the worst.

  “You used the ATV?” Dean supposed. “To move the body?”

  “To the back fence. From there, I took it on foot. On my back. A duffel bag. It was only a torso,” she said, grimacing when it came out of her mouth so nonchalantly. “I’m sorry. That was…” She drifted off helplessly, shaking her head.

  “Did your husband know?” Dean asked, his voice carefully low.

  Gillian’s jaw dropped and then snapped shut. “God, no.” She struggled with her words for a moment, and then said, “The body was in the freezer while I was in the hospital from the fall. Frankie didn’t tell me it was there right away. I was dealing with my injuries. And then Greg died, and I found out about the freezer, and…” She shook her head hard. “I was picking out a casket and flowers and I couldn't deal.”