Keeper

by Michael Garrett

  He would apologize profusely, and as soon as the roads were clear in the morning, he would rush her to a hospital.

  She would understand.

  5

  Saturday

  Day Two

  Waking early with excitement in his eyes, nine-year-old Nat Mason inhaled the sweet morning air of the Deep South. Daylight had finally come and Nat was anxious to peek outside. Before going to bed, Ma and Pa said conditions were right for snow, regardless of what the weatherman thought. And for a nine-year-old Negro boy who had never seen snow, the event would, indeed, be monumental. Snow seldom accumulated in this region and when the last had fallen two years earlier, Nat and his family had been further south in Andalusia where Pa was preaching at a revival. Snow was much more of a rarity down there.

  Nat kicked out from under covers and dropped his bare feet to the cold floor. Clad only in longjohns, he shivered and rubbed his arms. The air was frigid, as always, in this back section of the house, far from the warmth of the fireplace in the living room. Quietly, he tip-toed to the window for a look outside. Not a trace of snow, but instead a thin coat of ice, sparkling like fine jewelry, blanketed the vegetation. The trees were like the glass trinkets his Ma scolded him for touching at a Sylacauga arts-and-crafts show. It was a crystal fantasy land. But the star-like reflections were fading fast, the ground already soggy from the meltdown. And in spite of the beauty, Nat was disappointed. After all, who ever heard of building an ice man?

  With a sigh, Nat turned to the floor where his ragged denim coveralls lay in a crumpled heap. Might as well go outside anyway. It had rained hard the night before and Kelley Creek would be high. No telling what he might find along its shores. Last time the creek rose he found two slick tires and an old washing machine his Pa sold for scrap. There was always something. So quickly Nat slipped into the coveralls and pushed his feet into tennis shoes with worn-out toes.

  Sneaking through the house, he quietly opened the front door and gently pushed the screened door forward. The scratchy sound of its overhead spring grated his nerves, but he doubted his Pa had been awakened. Outside, the air was brisk, but not as cold as he’d expected.

  Skipping down the front steps, Nat raced for the nearby shore of Kelley Creek. Sure enough, the water was intriguingly high—higher, in fact, than he’d ever seen it. The dark muddy water flowed peacefully downstream, circling tree trunks that grew within the floodplain.

  First, he’d need a good stick, the crucial tool of all young Alabama explorers. Luckily a nice prospect protruded from a pile of scrub his Pa had recently cleared away. Skinning the limb of its branches, Nat tested its firmness by prodding it into the soft mud along the shore. It seemed perfect.

  Fully equipped, he paced the shoreline, a task more difficult now with the water level penetrating thick stands of pines on both shores. But that made it all the more exciting.

  Nat gazed across the stream, now more than twice its normal width. It seemed strange to consider that the trails he usually hiked were now under water. Were fishes swimming along his favorite path? Nat chuckled aloud, then stopped in his tracks as something caught his eye. At the water’s edge, tiny waves lapped along the shore. And just ahead, bobbing in the water, half submerged, was a plastic box. It was white and shiny and on top there was a black plastic handle.

  Nat scurried forward and hooked the stick through the handle. Examining the object more closely, he knew immediately it was a woman’s purse. WOW! He hoped there was something good inside! Quickly he pulled it open. There was a hair brush, makeup, and thick, soggy cotton pads whose use he couldn’t imagine. And at the bottom was a small change purse that held six damp dollars! Nat pocketed the money and chucked the purse and its contents into the nearby brush. With a broad smile, he ran back to the front porch of the house. The sun was beaming directly across the deck’s rotted planks to the side of an old washing machine where he spread the money to dry.

  Six dollars was more than he’d ever owned—what a lucky break! And with this sudden turn of good fortune, Nat wondered what other treasures might be found along the creek. Anxiously, he bounded away, knowing the cash was out of sight of his mother if she came to the front door. Skipper, his mutt, would keep thieves away.

  Maybe later Pa would drive him to Pell City for some shopping.

  The chill of dawn settled over Nancy as sleep slowly ended. Blinking for clear vision, her eyes traced the beams of diffused sunlight that penetrated a nearby window. Through a crack in the corduroy curtains she saw tiny icicles outside with droplets of water swelling and falling from their pointed ends. Turning her attention inside, she gazed down the length of the corridor, immediately recognizing the interior of a mobile home. But how had she come to be here? And where was Charlie?

  And why was she lying nude beneath a blanket?

  Suddenly her throat seemed thicker, her breathing difficult. Had it been more than just a nightmare, being molested by a strange man in the dark? It had been so horrible, so gross. And yet … it had seemed so real.

  I’m inside someone’s home.

  Guardedly she lowered her gaze to the floor.

  He was there. The man. Asleep on the floor. Blocking her exit.

  A jumble of thoughts rushed through her mind. What had this man done to her? And what had he done to Charlie—?

  Tensing her muscles in order to rise, she felt a sharp pain race through her stiffened joints.

  Oh, my God—I’ve been beaten. And heaven only knows what ehe!

  She recalled that horrible moment when she awoke to find a man hovering over her waist and could hear and feel his heavy breath again.

  Panic-stricken, Nancy strained again, hoping to somehow get to her feet, but it was impossible. She was much too sore. Nervously she settled back on the sofa.

  How can I protect myself?

  Shifting her eyes, she searched for a makeshift weapon. If a heavy, solid object were within reach, perhaps she could knock her captor unconscious. Leaning her head as far back as possible, she looked behind the upper end of the sofa. There, on a dusty end table, was a small trophy. Reaching back with her right arm, she grabbed it and brought it back to her chest for closer inspection.

  Atop a marble base stood a ten-inch bowler. An inscription read “Selton Strikers, Third Place”. Selton … She and Charlie had been driving to Selton to see Liz. But she couldn’t remember if they’d ever arrived.

  Fumbling with the tiny statue, Nancy turned it end over end and gripped the figurine tightly in her right hand, testing the feel of its heavy base against her hip. Yes, with a forceful swing, it could inflict some damage.

  But could she actually strike this man? Looking down again, she saw that he was still asleep. His face was young and vaguely familiar. Where had she seen him before? She was almost certain he was the man she had surprised during the night. But had she not seen him prior to that? And something about the icicles outside the trailer nagged at her memory as well. Was it because of the chilled, icy feeling she had when she awoke? Again, she remembered traveling with Charlie. They had had a stressful, heart-to-heart discussion, and then came a terrible storm and … then what? It was as if at that point her memory had been shredded to a hundred pieces. Thinking about it gave her a headache. But the facts could no longer be ignored—despite his meek and innocent appearance, this man had brought her to his home and removed her clothes. He had obviously beaten her, and she had awakened just in time to prevent him from, from—but what could he have already done prior to her awakening?

  Yes. She could strike him in his sleep. A sense of survival demanded that she fend for herself, and without risk. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t kill her yet. And she might not get another chance.

  Cautiously, Nancy studied the scene. She would need to shift her weight for an unobstructed swing. But when she tried desperately to slide into position, it was no use—it hurt too much. At best she could deliver only a glancing blow with enough force to perhaps daze him. Possibly then she could strug
gle past him to the telephone before he could stop her. Maybe not. She had nothing to lose.

  Apprehensively, Nancy raised the trophy above the man’s head, his face reminding her again of the filthy feeling of violation that surged through her body at his touch.

  Closing her eyes, she brought the marble base down hard against his forehead.

  The dream was progressing nicely.

  Rising flames filled Wayne’s subconscious. A suburban home was engulfed in fire. In a second story window stood a beautiful young woman, much like the one he’d actually saved from drowning. Courageously, he rushed through the scorching heat, staying low to avoid the deadly smoke as he bounded upstairs. The poor girl was about to succumb just as he entered the room. Quickly he gathered her weak body into his arms and carried her to safety. Instant recognition followed. He was a celebrity. People who had previously snubbed him now greeted him with warmth and respect. Total strangers vigorously shook his hand. Mom was especially proud, and Dad had a great story to tell his drinking buddies.

  And the women—

  Those who had overlooked him before now saw him in a different light. Wayne Crocker had become somebody. His life’s destiny, it seemed, had been to save a life. He decided to redirect his future efforts to the safety and protection of others. Would he become a policeman? A firefighter? Or perhaps join a rescue squad—?

  Pain.

  Intense, piercing pain.

  Wayne’s temples throbbed. His head felt as if it had been split in half.

  Then a bulky weight tumbled across his chest with a scrambling, frantic motion. He was no longer dreaming. Shrieking screams tormented his ears.

  It was her! The woman! But what was she doing? Why was she reacting this way, scratching and tearing at his face? Her fingernails were long and sharp, leaving trails of raw, burning flesh in his cheeks. What the hell was happening?

  Instinctively he grabbed her. Though her energy was waning fast, her screams increased in pitch as he squeezed her arm hard. Her erratic shrieks pierced his eardrums and echoed inside his aching head.

  “Wait!” he snarled.

  Her right hand clawed the floor, stretching and reaching for the small telephone table near the television. She ignored his command, groaning and twisting away.

  “Stop it!” he shouted again, and gave her arm a tight wrench.

  She recoiled immediately and wailed in pain. Her bruised and swollen arm felt pitiful in his grasp. He hadn’t meant to harm her, but the look in her eyes was frightening. It was a look combining helplessness with terror. How could she feel that way toward him?

  Lying with her breasts squashed against the cold floor, she trembled and shook with fear. Promptly he released her to demonstrate his innocent intentions. Then he leaned toward her.

  “Don’t touch me! she cried.

  The two lay paralyzed on the floor, sizing each other up.

  Two pulses pounded together.

  Two bodies shook with fear.

  Two adversaries plotted their next moves.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Wayne said calmly as a trickle of blood rolled down his forehead and dripped from his nose. “Please let me expiai—”

  Without warning she kicked him in the groin.

  “Charlie?” she yelled between uncontrollable sobs. “Help me, somebody. Please …”

  Clutching his testicles, Wayne curled his body to ward off further blows. Purple flashes invaded his vision, a shrill whistling sound screamed in his ears as he tried to avoid blacking out. Gagging, he rolled to his side away from her.

  She was like a cornered tigress, ready to kill if he couldn’t reason with her first. Was she crazy? Didn’t she realize she owed her life to him?

  A loud clang interrupted Wayne’s thoughts. Turning his head, he saw that she had pulled the telephone from its stand and was frantically depressing the switchhook for a dial tone. Finally realizing that the line was dead, she flung the receiver at his disabled form and crawled further toward the kitchen.

  Wayne’s mind wavered between consciousness and a deep, dark void. In a few incredible moments he had turned from hero to villain to victim. A crash of silverware told him she had pulled a kitchen drawer to the floor. Even if he managed to overcome her, she would report him to the police. She obviously believed him a kidnapper, and he could spend the rest of his life in prison if a jury doubted his story. The glory was gone, and with it, the recognition and acceptance. Now his life would be worse than ever.

  Shakily, Wayne wiped away tears and blood that blurred his vision. She was lying on her stomach, facing him ten feet or so away. Shining from her forehead was an ugly bruise and both her breasts lay flattened against the floor.

  Slowly, menacingly, she raised her head. Her expression reflected both fear and madness. She grimaced with pain, but took a deep breath, and inched toward him.

  In her right hand she held tightly to a butcher knife.

  Martha Farrell stood waiting at the door as Tom and Liz returned from their search for a telephone in working order. The sun was shining brightly, the temperature rising, and all traces of the previous night’s miserable weather were almost gone.

  To the sound of car doors slamming shut and the crackle of hens pecking about in the yard, Martha surveyed the expressions of her husband and daughter. Tears were rolling down Lizzie’s cheeks. The news was obviously bad—but just how bad was it?

  “Went all the way to Vincent before we could find a decent phone,” Tom began, scraping clumps of mud from his shoes on the front steps. “Saw men from the phone company and the power company along the way. They say ours ought to be hooked up again sometime this afternoon.”

  “Wipe those shoes in the grass!” Martha scolded him as Liz approached and hugged her tightly.

  “I called Aunt Helen in Columbus,” Liz said. “She was worried sick about Nancy. She tried to call us all night, but couldn’t get through since the phone was out. She broke down when I told her Nancy never got here.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Tom broke in. “You’ve got to listen to reason.” He stepped to Liz’s side and placed a hand comfortingly on her right shoulder. “The telephone lines are down all over the place. They probably couldn’t call. You know what the sheriff said.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Liz answered with a grimace, looking back at her mother. “The sheriff says we’ve got to give Nancy and Charlie time to get in touch with us before he can do anything. He says they can’t be considered ‘missing’ just yet. But what if they’re dying in a ditch somewhere—?”

  “Now, hold your horses,” Tom interrupted again, more impatiently this time. “Don’t go flyin’ off the handle. The sheriff would know if they’ve been involved in a serious accident. And like he said, the fact that he didn’t know of any bad wrecks is in our favor.”

  Liz settled into the front porch swing and gently began to rock. The morning sun felt warm against her skin. It seemed hard to believe that the night before had been a veritable deep freeze. She glanced at her father who was now rounding the side of the house, on his way to feed the chickens. How could he be so optimistic? Of course, it’s just an act for my sake, she thought. She could tell by the expressions of both her Mom and Dad that they, too, were worried.

  His bloody face wavered before her unsteady vision.

  Trembling, and oblivious to her own nakedness, Nancy inched her way toward him.

  “G-G-Get away from the d-d-door,” she muttered as she slowly approached, the knife gleaming ominously in her hand.

  Wayne sat motionless, only now beginning to regain his faculties. Holding an open palm toward her to motion her away, Wayne slid backwards across the cold floor and rested against the sofa.

  Pain ripped through Nancy’s body. A surge of adrenalin had enabled her to act, but now the weakness of her limbs had returned. Did she have the strength to continue? Surrender now could mean certain death. But what would she do if she escaped? Was she physically capable of seeking help? Or would she just crawl away to die a slo
w, agonizing death? Her head throbbing, her right leg resisting all efforts to walk, she hesitated at the door to rest. Glancing back, she saw her clothes folded neatly on the back of the sofa. But it would be impossible to dress without giving her captor a chance to retaliate.

  “G-G-Give me the blanket,” she said, pointing the shiny blade at him.

  Wayne bundled the blanket and tossed it to her feet.

  Her right hand reached for the doorknob. Slowly she twisted and forced the door ajar.

  “Stay back!” she warned, pushing the door further open.

  Wayne’s mind raced over the possibilities. She’s hurt. She could injure herself further, not to mention the damage she could do to me if she tells.

  He eased closer and extended an arm to her. “Let me help,” he said. “I’ll take you anywhere you—”

  “No!” she barked and slashed the knife in his direction in a wild, erratic arc. “Stay away from me!”

  Wayne dodged the blade and reconsidered. The pain from his head and groin was worsening, and he was further inhibited by the soreness of his muscles from last night’s ordeal. If he were at full strength, he could easily out-maneuver her, throw her into the car and rush her to a hospital. But in this weakened state, he’d have to be careful. She could actually kill him.

  Wayne studied her slow, calculated movement. He’d have to surprise her, catch her off-guard. He would overpower her and force her to listen. They’d reach an understanding, then he’d take her away.

  Her legs were hanging out of the doorway as she struggled to shift her weight outside to the front steps, the blanket wrapped tightly around her body.

  I can’t let her do this.

  Wayne reached for one of the quilts tangled atop the crumpled sleeping bag. Distracted by intense pain, Nancy missed his movement.

  She’ll tell. She’ll tell everybody.

  Her attention finally fixed outside, Wayne sprung forward and tossed the quilt over her crippled form, at the same time groping for the knife in her right hand. The girl panicked, dropped the knife, and screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice carrying past the leafless oaks and echoing along the rolling hills that surrounded the trailer. Through tear-streaked vision Wayne grappled with her, losing his balance as he covered her mouth with his left hand. The two tumbled down the steps to the ground outside. Now she was biting and gnawing at his hand.