Keeper

by Michael Garrett

  After considerable thought, he had decided again not to release her just yet. There was still a faint chance he could make her understand, and he had nothing left to lose. One more day of captivity wouldn’t make him look any worse a kidnapper than he already did.

  Wringing out a terry-cloth wash rag, he leaned over the tub and began to remove a hardened film of mud from her legs. “You’ll feel much better once you’re clean,” he spoke soothingly as he scrubbed her. She winced occasionally at pressure around particularly sensitive areas, but otherwise gave no response. Slowly the bathwater turned a dingy shade of brown and her skin regained its natural glow. Noticing the scratches and minor cuts that scarred the flesh of her swollen limbs, Wayne realized the wash cloth might be abrasive to her raw flesh, and decided to use only his hands.

  His fingers glided over her soft silky skin and promptly found her breasts. The feeling was divine—how soft and supple they were. And to his surprise he noted how the nipples grew erect at his touch.

  Intensely aroused, Wayne wanted desperately to explore the secrets of her inner thighs, but resolved to control his feelings and wash only above her waist with his bare hand. A residue of guilt still remained along with a touch of embarrassment, about his voyeuristic treatment of her earlier. And besides, he thought, there’ll be plenty of time.

  His arousal partially subsiding, Wayne activated the shower head and aimed a steady spray at the top of her head. Then he slowly kneaded her hair, building a thick lather from Prell Concentrate shampoo. Her long tangled locks were matted with bits of leaves and sand that fell into the brown bathwater. Realizing that her hair would require at least two washings, he rinsed off the soap and began applying a second coat of shampoo. He enjoyed caring for her as if she were a child.

  Hesitating briefly, Wayne stopped to watch her eyes. Throughout the bath she had stared ahead, fixing her attention on the shiny pink tile around the tub. Now he noticed she was slowly surveying the room. For a moment their eyes met, and he marveled at their clear liquid sparkle. He also thought he detected a slight twist of her lips. Had it been a semblance of a smile? Despite the pain throbbing in his own injured forehead, a feeling of warmth rose inside his body, a contentment that was heretofore alien to him, but a state of mind he longed to hold forever. It was a feeling of admiration. Of caring. Of concern.

  Tentatively, he returned the smile.

  “Nice doggie …” Sheriff Arnold said nervously. “Good boy.”

  Crouched on all fours, the fur about its neck standing on end, and snarling between bared teeth, the dog was guarding its territory. When the snarl changed to a deep growl, the sheriff slowly backed away, avoiding any sudden movement. Although a small dog, its teeth looked sharp and menacing, and only a fool would venture within its prescribed boundaries. Behind the dog stood the old Mason homestead, looking exactly as it always had for the past twenty years. The exterior hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in as long as the sheriff could remember. On the front porch sat a worn wooden rocker, an old washing machine, and a stack of firewood. A missing pane in the window behind the rocker had been replaced by a thin sheet of cardboard. Poor Preacher, thought the sheriff, he does the best he can.

  “Hey, Preacher!” Sheriff Arnold yelled. “You at home?”

  The dog answered with a vicious bark and inched closer to the sheriff.

  “Easy boy,” the sheriff said softly. “Calm down, sport.”

  There was no visible movement within the house, and the disturbance outside would have been investigated long before now, if anyone had been at home, the sheriff realized. He checked the time—10:15 a.m. Of course, he thought. Preacher would be in church with his family, leading Sunday School classes. Now would be a perfect opportunity to snoop around without interference—if it weren’t for the damn dog.

  The house sat two or three feet above the ground, supported by six pillars of brick. Underneath were piles of junk, including a chrome bumper from an Edsel, complete with a “Jesus Saves” bumper sticker.

  Damn this dog! thought the sheriff. Now I’ll have to come back later. But, then again, perhaps it was all just as well. Neither the Preacher nor his family were likely to have seen or heard anything from this distance.

  As he pivoted and walked away, the sheriff flashed a wide grin at the dog. “Get lost, mutt,” he chuckled. “Go lick yourself.”

  Almost a mile upstream, Deputy Hart was combing the shoreline in search of evidence. Though he knew the area had been scoured several times already, he hoped his trained eye might spot something overlooked by the others. The scene with the sheriff played over and over in his mind, feeding his anger and thirst for revenge. Another clue would turn up—it had to. All he needed was a piece of physical evidence from the sunken car, or even better, a piece of clothing or other such personal item from the woman herself. He’d find a way to link it to the nigger, even if he had to plant the damning proof himself.

  With a touch of envy, he recalled the woman’s shoe found by the Gibbs kid. If only he had found it first. The shoe would have been perfect. But, still, there had to be other scattered articles hidden within these muddy waters. And whatever was there, he would find it. Then he would expose Sheriff Arnold as a nigger lover, send his spade friend off to prison, and claim all the glory himself. In the next election, Hart would run for sheriff.

  Everything was falling neatly into place. Deputy Hart smiled and stared ahead, past the massive new bridge to the barely visible, dismantled bridge in the distance. Charles Barnett, you stupid asshole, he thought. Thanks for takin’ a dive.

  James Crocker awoke near mid-morning with a ball-breaker of a hangover. From his perspective sprawled across the stinking mattress, the room was spinning end over end, the flowered print of the bedroom wallpaper merging into a single swimming pattern.

  “James, you’ve got to stop this,” a voice nagged in his ear. His wife Edith was standing nearby, calm and collected. Her figure wavered before his eyes.

  “Do you even know what day it is?” she asked.

  Day? he thought. Why, of course, its Fri—Saturday? He couldn’t be sure. But did it really matter?

  “I missed church because of you. Because I was worried about leaving you alone.”

  Church? It couldn’t be Sunday already! The last thing he remembered clearly was leaving work Friday afternoon in a deep funk. Sylvester Granger had gotten a big raise, and it was James who had taught that asshole everything he knew, yet his own last raise had been pitiful.

  “James, can you hear me? Answer me! Do you realize how serious this is?”

  “Yeah … yeah …” he mumbled, blinking tightly to clear his vision. Now he could feel the bed sinking, as if the mattress were about to engulf and suffocate him. “Eedie!” he moaned, extending a shaky arm to her. “Help me, Eedie. Help … me.”

  Edith took her husband’s hand. “I’ve helped you since the day we met,” she said. “It’s time for you to straighten up for a change.” Fighting back tears, Edith continued, “You worry me to death, Jim. I never know when the police might come and tell me you’re dead. And, God, it’s been hard on poor Wayne, too. He’s a good kid, James. He’s always stood by me. You should be proud of that boy.”

  James’ temper momentarily flared. “But … that boy … left me in … jail,” he mumbled.

  “And that’s where you belonged,” Edith interrupted. “Don’t you realize you could kill yourself, and somebody else, too, when you’re drunk? James, you hardly know what you’re doing when you’re … that way.”

  He knew that what she said was true. Every word of it. But how could he control these intense cravings? Avoid the need to escape reality? If life had provided more rewards, perhaps the bottle wouldn’t seem so … inviting.

  “If you don’t promise me,” she sobbed. “If you don’t swear to me that you’ll stop drinking, I’ll leave you, James. I will. I’m not too old to change my life, and I’m not afraid to go.”

  He stared at her in silence. She had to be pulli
ng his leg. After twenty-four years of marriage, only a few months shy of their silver anniversary, she would just up and leave? No way.

  “I’ll do it, if you force me to,” she sobbed. Tears dampened her cheeks. “I’ll move in with Wayne until I find a job.”

  Damn! Maybe she really meant it this time. But so what? It would be good for her to get out on her own awhile. After she stayed with Wayne a few days, she’d come whinin’ back. Wayne … What was it about Wayne that kept gnawing at the back of his mind?

  9

  He dressed her in a pair of flannel pajamas and carefully brushed the tangles from her wet hair. Concentrating on the gentle tug against her scalp, she sat contentedly on the edge of the bed. The bath had been refreshing, the flannel, soft against her skin, relaxing. Sleepy, she tried to lie back across the bed, but the pain in her leg and shoulder prevented her.

  “… Help … me …?” she asked softly.

  Wayne stopped in mid-stroke. She had finally spoken. Was she coming out of her strange withdrawal? Quickly he stood and raised her injured leg, taking care not to bend it at the knee, and swung it up and over to rest on the bed. Then he placed a pillow beneath her head. He could see the exhaustion weighing heavily in her eyes.

  “Would you like to take a nap?” he asked.

  She nodded and closed her eyes.

  God, she was beautiful. Like a sleeping angel. Her skin was so smooth, her body perfect in every way—like a goddess.

  Quietly he rose from the bed and left the room. Could this be another of her tricks? Probably not. Her fatigue was all too obvious. She would rest well.

  Wayne sat on the floor of the next room and flipped through his record collection. Finally selecting Beatles ‘65, he pulled the record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. A ballad, “No Reply,” spilled into the room. Stretching across the floor, Wayne relaxed. Much of his own fear had passed, now that he regarded himself as her defender, her guardian. He dreaded being forced to restrain her again, but it was too soon to leave her to her own defenses. The library would open within an hour or so, and he would be waiting at the door, hoping to gain some insight on her condition and how she might best be treated. She seemed to be improving, gaining awareness. That was great. Right now, she was all that mattered. He would keep her safe.

  And secure.

  As Nancy drifted into a deeper sleep in the next room, she heard music. It was the Beatles, her favorites, and the sound floated lazily into her subconscious, bringing with it a mellow feeling of peacefulness and euphoria. Often she had escaped her troubles through music. Silently her lips mimed the words of “I’ll Be Back” as the song played far away in another world.

  In the black void of sleep, she was home again. Charlie was at her side on the sofa. Rusty, her cat, was purring quietly in her lap. All was well.

  Seated alone at a corner table of the library, Wayne frantically scribbled notes from an encyclopedia, growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of information available. An exhaustive search of the card file had produced nothing. Under the heading “Shock,” there had been only one thin book, the primary topic of which had been electrical shock. Likewise, “Medical—Diagnosis” yielded nothing of any value. Quickly he had turned to the encyclopedia, which dealt with more symptoms as opposed to treatment. For a moment, he rested, his thoughts reverting to the mysterious woman who now dominated his life.

  Nancy. What a pretty name. A delicate name that fit her well. Remembering the confusion in her eyes when he had tied her up again before leaving, he winced. Soon she could be freed, he had assured her, but for the present he had no other alternative, he’d explained.

  The scene in the bathroom repeated itself in Wayne’s mind. He’d pulled her gently from the tub, steadied her against a wall, and toweled her dry. Beads of water clung to her skin and rolled down her breasts, only to disappear into the terrycloth. On her hip he noticed a small birthmark, and as he crouched to dry her legs, she placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. Had it been merely to support herself? Or was it perhaps a subtle invitation? God, how he hoped her hardened attitude had changed.

  But now, this very minute, she lay in discomfort inside the trailer. What little faith she had gained might already be lost. It was unfair, he knew. She was like a caged bird, and her involuntary detention could not be continued. Even at the risk of his own future, he would release her soon. Her life seemed suddenly more important than his own.

  Not since Friday night had his eyes gleamed with such pride. No matter what she or anyone else thought, regardless of the consequences, he alone had rescued this beautiful woman from certain death. And her life was worth any sacrifice, because she was unlike any woman he had ever known.

  I’d love to have her with me. Always. To care for her, to comfort her. To see that all her needs are met. Nothing could give greater meaning to my life.

  But tomorrow, Monday, was a workday. The realization struck Wayne hard. What could be done with her while he was away for as many as nine hours? She couldn’t be bound and gagged daily. The thought was cruel, depressing. It could never come to that. There had to be another way to guarantee her silence while still maintaining her safety—

  Safety! First aid …

  Within minutes of searching the card catalog for a second time, he found the ideal book—a first aid manual. A wealth of information was contained inside, including diagnosis and emergency treatment of shock, exposure, and bone injuries. Quickly he checked out the book, forced a smile toward the prim librarian, and burst through the door on his way home.

  As he drove, he reflected on himself and his rapidly changing moods. One minute he felt a frustration and fear of her; the next, a deepening love. Her docile behavior had elicited the latter, he knew, and he hoped she would remain so.

  Their present course was smooth, he thought.

  And promising.

  In Columbus, Georgia, a funeral was about to begin. At the prompting of close friends and relatives, the next-of-kin of Charles Barnett had prepared to bury him quickly, in order to put the ritual behind and adjust to his loss on their own terms. Whisperings around the congregation centred on the absence of Nancy’s immediate family. Gossip abounded as to the unhappiness of the young couple, but most understood that her closest survivors were with relatives in Alabama, awaiting the recovery of Nancy’s body.

  The church was packed with friends and family. Flower arrangements of all colors and sizes crowded the pulpit as the haunting melody of the organ faded. Reverend Foster rose and stepped forward, still uncertain of the eulogy he was going to deliver. The deceased had seldom been to church, and Reverend Foster barely knew him. Nancy, however, had attended occasionally, and had recently come to him for marital counseling. The words of the Lord had comforted her with assurance that in faith would be her deliverance.

  Still hesitating and finding it difficult to begin, Reverend Foster met the tear-stained eyes across the crowd. The solution to Nancy’s problem in the eyes of the Lord had been death, and this weighed heavily on the reverend’s mind. Now the struggle for faith had been passed to her loved ones.

  In the crudest of ways, her prayer had been answered.

  The Sunday edition of The Birmingham News lay scattered across the living-room floor, surrounding the sofa where James Crocker lay. Occasionally Edith glanced at him through the doorway from the kitchen. Clad only in a T-shirt and dirty work pants, an offensive odor wafting from his unclean body, he was repulsive. Silently she shook her head, her face showing the strain of internal turmoil.

  James scratched his head in wonderment at the front-page report of the continued search for a woman’s body in Kelley Creek. Till now he had been unaware of the accident—yet he had dreamed of a peculiarly similar accident. The dream involved Wayne, and had nagged at his subconscious, until jogged by the newspaper story when it had all come back quite clearly.

  In the dream, he had stumbled in the dark along the shore of Kelley Creek, on the opposite shore from his usual spot. A
storm was building, and forced him to stay close to his pickup truck for shelter from the rain. Under his right arm was a fresh six-pack of Schlitz, and on the floor of the truck lay another, now empty. Suddenly the wind strengthened, rocking him on his unsteady feet. Dead leaves and dust whipped through the air and stung his cheeks. Then came the rain, a cold drenching downpour that sent him to shelter beside a massive boulder. Streaks of lightning continuously interrupted the thick darkness of night. The noise itself was overpowering, an explosion of wind, rain, thunder and rushing water.

  James stared in bewilderment as suddenly an automobile appeared in the river, slowly sinking at midstream. He staggered in disbelief from behind the boulder, rain lashing against his face, and fell to his knees. Downstream on the opposite shore, Wayne appeared, waving his arms and shouting at the vehicle. James yelled to his son, but his voice was muted by the raging elements. Wayne obviously hadn’t seen or heard him, instead concentrating on the automobile and someone who had escaped and was fighting the current for survival.

  In the dream, the scene was obscure, visible only through intermittent flashes of lightning. James couldn’t tell if the accident victim had been a man or woman, but regardless, Wayne pulled the survivor to safety. James had never felt such intense excitement. But then a bitter cold settled in, and he felt the brittle crackle of his own frozen sleeves as he bent his arms. His teeth chattered, his feet ached from the cold. The rescue scene had been quickly forgotten as James ran on wobbly legs to the warm, dry cab of the pickup truck.

  Ain’t that a bitch! thought James. It was almost like ESP or something, crazier than any dream he’d ever had. But why had Wayne held the leading role? James usually cast himself as the hero of his dreams. Shit, it didn’t make good sense. But there had to be an explanation. Since the real accident occurred near his favorite haunt, his subconscious must have taken note of a radio report while he was drunk. Yeah, that must have been it.