The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  House of fucking horrors.

  So even though she really didn’t want to be where she was—like he did either—she would deal. She would grit her teeth and sing I Will Survive in her head, and everything would be fine.

  Buck up, little camper.

  Beside her, Olga chortled. “You are afraid?”

  “First time,” Cheyenne retorted. “I reserve the right.”

  A snort. “You have lived through worse.”

  Again with the piercing stare at her scar. Cheyenne resisted the urge to rub it.

  “Compared to that, this is nothing.” Olga gave a wave of dismissal. Rings glittered on her fingers: rubies, emeralds and dark, glinting sapphires. She wore an expensive, boiled wool pantsuit in dark blue-gray plaid and low-heeled leather pumps that matched the slender black bag she cradled in her lap. Steel gray hair wound into an elegant twist at the back of her skull and pearls clipped to her earlobes; her lipstick was blood red. “If we go down, it will be quick.” She shrugged. “Time to scream. That is all.”

  “Good to know,” Cheyenne muttered.

  The plane turned and rolled to a halt. The engines kicked abruptly into full gear, revving beneath them like NASCAR on steroids, and Cheyenne clenched her fingers around the armrests until they ached. The coil of power was almost painful, a stillness so full of motion her nerves shrieked in protest. And then, without warning, they were hurtling forward at a speed wholly unnatural to man. Just when she thought they were going to explode, the nose of the plane lifted, and suddenly they were aloft.

  “See?” Olga said. “Nothing to worry you.”

  And then the plane shuddered and clunked, and Cheyenne glared at her in disbelief.

  “The landing gear.” Another dismissive wave. “Is normal.”

  It took a good two minutes for Cheyenne’s heart to slide from her throat back into her chest cavity. Her fingers, however, preferred to cling to the armrests—as if they were any more capable of saving her than the flimsy nylon strap buckled around her waist.

  “Fuck’s sake,” she said finally, forcing a breath in and then out.

  “You are fine.”

  Well. She couldn’t really argue that, so she just looked past the woman next to her, out the tiny window, and was immediately captivated by the sight of the mountains spread out below, a monstrous, twisted mass of granite and pine dotted by lingering snow fields, ebbing glaciers, and brilliant blue alpine lakes.

  “Worth it,” she said quietly, committing the sprawling scene to the eidetic memory she’d had since birth.

  Because this, this was worth painting. This was the world reworked; so massive and wild it made mincemeat of the ego with which humans viewed their surroundings. If God existed, it was here, in this.

  “Every time I see them, I miss home,” Olga murmured.

  For a long moment they sat in silence, undisturbed by the vibration of the propellers next to them, staring out at the untamed beauty of the granite spine that split the country from border to border. The crackling, disembodied male voice returned—Captain Bob!—and announced that they had reached their cruising altitude. Denver was less than an hour away, and oh boy, what a gorgeous day to fly.

  Blech.

  Olga turned away from the window. “Where are you going?”

  Normally, Cheyenne’s answer would have been vague and imprecise, but since her equilibrium was seriously disturbed at being thrust into the stratosphere—and since the paper barf bag was starting to look really appealing—she decided to share.

  “I’m off to the dairy land to collect my inheritance,” she replied. The Fasten Seat Belt light winked out and she unbuckled immediately. “He’s ten.”

  “You inherited…a child?”

  “Random, right?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Me either.” Cheyenne shrugged. “His ma and I….we were done. And I mean—finito—but…well, he’s me.”

  For a long moment, Olga only stared at her. “You are a strange girl.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  Another small smile. “You are married?”

  Cheyenne laughed. It was not something she did often, but when it rolled out of her, it was low and deep and vibrant. People turned to look. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “You do this alone?”

  Cheyenne shrugged. “Alone is what I know.”

  “And this child’s mother…you were not close?”

  Cheyenne only snorted.

  Olga sat back and eyed her shrewdly. “What is it that happened?”

  Blood and terror and death.

  “I know there’s a purpose here,” Cheyenne told her. “Some kind of machination—that’s who she was—and I know the other shoe is coming. Probably right to the noggin. But a long time ago, I was where he is, and no one came for me.” She paused, wondering why she was attempting to explain something she barely understood herself. “So I can’t leave him there…no matter what lies in wait.”

  That faded blue gaze studied her with the same kind of frank assessment Hank had always watched her with, and Cheyenne found it oddly comforting. While she might not have a tactful bone in her body, she was honest. Assessment didn’t faze her—she was who she was. Besides, not many people had the cajones to look her in the eye. It was always refreshing to meet one of the few.

  “You do not know this child?” Olga asked. “You have not met?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you believe you can care for him?”

  “I know I can.”

  A moment of silence fell between them. “Confidence is good.” Olga nodded slowly. “But there is something you are not considering.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must forgive her.”

  The plane chose that moment to lurch like a drunk. Cheyenne grabbed onto the armrests and swore. “Seriously?”

  “Is just turbulence,” Olga scoffed. “We are not crashing.”

  “Well, you be sure and let me know if that changes,” Cheyenne retorted.

  A rough laugh broke from the woman next to her. “You would squeal like a pig. Why would I tell you?”

  Captain Bob interrupted then. “Just a little bit of turbulence, folks. We’ll be turning the fasten seat belt sign back on, and it will remain on for the duration of the flight. We thank you for your cooperation. We should be landing in Denver in just under forty minutes.”

  The stewardess moved slowly past, her eyes locked on Cheyenne’s undone seat belt. Her mouth opened, but Cheyenne held out a hand and beat her.

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” she muttered. “Freaking seat belt police.”

  “Thank you,” the woman replied coolly.

  “My pleasure,” Cheyenne told her.

  Olga was smiling again. “I do like you.”

  “I’m a likeable girl.”

  A snort. “You think to distract me. But you know of what I spoke.”

  She was a sharp old bird. Just Cheyenne’s luck. “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “Is important,” Olga told her earnestly. “You cannot keep her child unless you forgive her. You must not punish him.”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “But you will if you do not let your anger go. It is…inevitable.”

  Which Cheyenne had not even considered. Her plan was to simply move forward and ignore what lay behind. But the past cast a long shadow—one she still stood within when her ire was stirred—so there was really no denying—or escaping—the truth she could see reflected in Olga’s discerning blue gaze.

  “Damn it,” she said with a heavy sigh.

  “Yes,” Olga agreed.

  You need to determine where this anger stems from, Cheyenne, and you need to exorcise it.

  Exorcise this, Phil.

  “Food for thought,” Cheyenne said.

  “You must do this,” Olga urged quietly. “Is not fair to him if you cannot.”

  Perhaps. But leaving him where he was, abandoning him—that was worse. Because even if she
could somehow summon the desire to forgive Georgia, Cheyenne wasn’t at all certain she was capable of it. To forgive what she’d barely survived…not once had she ever considered it. Nor did she care to.

  She was, however, perfectly capable of helping the child—in spite of the vicious, bloodied past. Of this, she was certain. Tangible, practical help: a home, a full belly, an education. Someone who gave a damn. It was more than she’d had at his age. And she knew the value of those few, simple things, so that’s where she would start.

  “Thank you,” Cheyenne said. She met Olga’s gaze. “I appreciate your words. I don’t take them lightly.”

  Olga studied her for a long moment, that sharp, perceptive assessment flitting across her features once more. Then she nodded, briefly. “Remember them. And when you are ready, use them.”

  Chapter Four

  Milwaukee County Police Department Report

  Case # 160958J-3201

  03/09/92 23:23

  * * *

  I responded at 21:02 to a call from dispatch regarding a domestic dispute in progress at 311 Brady Street. Upon arrival, resident Jonas Pettington approached me and advised that his neighbor, Abigail Elias, was threatening to harm her minor child. It was not known if anyone other than Ms. Elias and her minor child were inside the residence. I called for backup and approached the apartment complex.

  Upon entering the building, I could smell smoke. I radioed into dispatch and requested the MCFD investigate the scene. With the aid of Mr. Pettington, we alerted residents to the possible fire and evacuated them.

  As I approached Ms. Elias’ residence, I could hear cries through the door and believed them to belong to the minor child, a girl named Cheyenne who Mr. Pettington stated was approximately 4 or 5 years of age. As I stood there, I realized the smoke was coming from Ms. Elias’ residence.

  I knocked on the door and identified myself as a police officer. I asked Ms. Elias to open the door and allow me into the residence. Ms. Elias did not respond. I knocked once more and demanded entrance. Again, she did not respond.

  I forced my way into the residence and discovered the apartment dark and full of smoke. I could hear a child crying, but could not see her. When I located the light switch and turned it on, I discovered Abigail Elias on the floor of the main room of the residence, unconscious and bleeding from a stomach wound. I radioed into dispatch and requested paramedics.

  Upon entering the apartment’s sole bedroom, I located the minor child huddled in the corner, wrapped in a blanket. She had been badly burned on her left side. I identified myself as a police officer and attempted to get close enough to provide first aid.

  I was approximately three feet from her when she brandished a bloody serrated knife (I believe it was a bread knife) and told me not to touch her. She grew more agitated when I identified myself, and she refused to allow me to get close. Mr. Pettington then entered the room and spoke to the child. Several minutes later, she agreed to give him the knife, and we were able to approach her and evaluate her condition.

  Most of her clothing had melted to her skin, and the blanket that wrapped her was smoldering. She had what appeared to be third and fourth degree burns the entire length of her body on her left side and was unable to see with her left eye. I witnessed bruises to her face, blood from her nose and mouth, and her right arm appeared to be broken. I radioed into dispatch and requested a second ambulance be sent to the location.

  Mr. Pettington asked Cheyenne what had occurred, but she did not respond. I then asked what happened to her mother, and she began to cry, but would not provide a verbal response. At this time, the MCFD arrived and began an inspection of the premises. The initial ambulance immediately followed, and I directed the paramedics to Abigail Elias, who was still bleeding and unconscious. The second ambulance arrived immediately thereafter, and both were transported to St. Andrews Medical Center at 22:38.

  The MCFD located a mason jar on the floor of the bedroom that contained approximately two ounces of kerosene. Fire Chief Ingalls believed this to be the accelerant used to ignite the fire. The wall behind the bed was smoldering, which was the sole remaining source of smoke they could locate. The curtains were burned, as was the bedding and the carpet. The residence was littered with dirty syringes and garbage.

  Witness statements and Fire Chief Ingall’s report are attached hereto. The case will be assigned to Detective Roberts for follow-up.

  Officer: J. Keegan 289

  Cheyenne F. Elias Session #1

  Case Manager: Connie Brock

  07/02/1992

  * * *

  I met with Cheyenne today. She is a five-year-old female who was removed from her mother’s home in March of this year. Cheyenne was discovered by the MPD in her mother’s apartment with third and fourth degree burns covering 37% of her body. Her mother (Abigail) had suffered a knife wound to the abdomen and was unconscious when the MPD arrived. Because there were no eyewitnesses—and because neither Cheyenne nor her mother would speak of the events of that night—only the factual findings of Detective Ed Roberts’ investigation could be entered into the record. Based on that physical evidence, Cheyenne was removed from the home, and her mother was sentenced to three years’ incarceration at the Wausau Women’s Correctional Facility for felony assault of a child.

  I spoke to Detective Roberts at length before meeting with Cheyenne. While he would only reiterate his filed report with regard to his official findings, off the record he was quite candid. I include his thoughts in this case file only because it is the sole summary of events (as he believed they occurred) we have from that night.

  I will preface his thoughts with the brief information I have gathered regarding Abigail Elias, who was a single mother at 17 and had a long history of drug use. She had been arrested for possession, distribution, prostitution, child endangerment, theft and various other misdemeanors by the time she was 19. According to neighbors, she was mentally unstable and often violent toward the people she encountered. She would regularly abuse Cheyenne both physically and verbally in public; at times no one would see the family for days, and the neighbors often worried for Cheyenne’s safety.

  We have no record of Cheyenne’s father, who is listed as Alexander Stone on her birth certificate. When asked, Abigail refused to speak of him.

  Based on his investigation, Detective Roberts believes that Abigail—upset that her boyfriend had been arrested for possession and therefore unable to supply her fix—flew into a violent rage. He believes Abigail set Cheyenne on fire.

  A jar with kerosene was found at the scene and on what little remained of Cheyenne’s clothing. A disposable lighter was discovered in Abigail’s pocket, which was also covered in the accelerant, as were Abigail’s hands and clothing. The Detective surmised, based on the Fire Chief’s examination of the burn patterns on the carpet, wall and curtains, and the burns Cheyenne suffered, that Abigail poured the kerosene over Cheyenne’s head and used the lighter to ignite the fire.

  Even as I write these words, I cannot begin to fathom it.

  Detective Roberts believes the only thing that saved Cheyenne was the knife she was holding when the responding officer arrived. It was matched to the abdominal wound suffered by Abigail. It is the Detective’s supposition that Cheyenne stabbed her mother in self-defense and, somehow, managed to put out the flames.

  Cheyenne spent three months at the Mendota Fire and Burn clinic in Madison, where she received multiple skin grafts. She arrived here just a week ago, still in bandages and an arm cast. Her eye has healed, and her hair is slowly growing back, but she is significantly damaged—both mentally and physically.

  When I met with her, she would not speak to me. Someone had given her a sketchbook which she spent the hour bent over, scribbling. When I asked to see what she was drawing, she hissed at me. She is, oddly, both volatile and so silent I first feared her mute. Time will tell if she has inherited her mother’s mental illness; Abigail was diagnosed a paranoid schizophrenic last month by the psycholo
gist at Wausau. Her attorney has filed an appeal to change her plea to guilty by reason of mental insanity.

  I’ve placed Cheyenne into the girls’ ward and assigned her a bunk above that of another recent arrival, Georgia Humboldt. Both girls come from broken, inner-city homes with abusive, drug addicted mothers and absent fathers.

  It is my hope they might befriend one another and benefit from their shared experiences.

  The picture was taken from an obscure angle, as though the photographer didn’t want the subject aware of the lens trained upon them. It was dated October 1992.

  The girl was no more than five or six. Too thin, all angles and edges, her bones frighteningly delicate. Scars marred her left side: her face, her neck, her arm. Presumably all of her left side, although Will couldn’t see it. Red and angry and grafted together; a mottled patchwork of mismatched flesh. Hair the color of a copper penny hung thick around her face except for the edge of her left temple, where it was thin and short, curling against her skull.

  Her features were broad, too wide for her narrow face, her cheekbones like blades, hollowing her jaw until she looked half-starved. Her chin was a sharp point kissed by a single dimple, and the wide bow of her mouth was turned down, a mark of sadness that stabbed something within him, like a bony, prodding finger pushing between his ribs. He couldn’t see her eye color, only that they were too big in her small face, lined by thick lashes and turned up faintly at the corners. Above them, her brows were dark, slashing lines.

  She stood in a line of girls, but it was apparent that she was other. Like a black mark on a smooth white page. She stood tense, as if waiting, but he saw no fear. He saw…readiness. Resignation. And such painful misery, that prodding finger turned hot and seared into him like a brand.