Wrath of the Sister

by Shannon Heuston

  I rolled my eyes. Yeah, that was believable.

  I hunkered down further, hugging my knees and curling into a fetal position, imagining myself part of the enormous bush, just one more undefinable shape in the landscape.

  John switched on a flashlight and swept both sides of the road with its high-powered beam. I closed my eyes, fearing they’d reflect the light, holding my breath. I sensed, rather than saw, the beam pass over me.

  “Maybe it wasn’t her,” John concluded.

  “Shit,” Sam swore. “She can’t have gone far, she’s not in good shape.”

  Fuck him.

  “Melody!” he shrieked, “cut the shit and come out!”

  “She ain’t here,” John said. “Musta went back the other way, to knock on doors.”

  “We gotta find her. I ain’t going to prison ‘cause of that bitch.” Sam glared at Laurel. “Thanks a bunch. You said she’d be like a lamb to the slaughter. Some lamb!” He kicked at a hunk of snow, then yelped. It was frozen solid.

  I stifled a laugh.

  I held my breath as they piled back into the Jeep. It tilted dangerously as John whipped it around, then righted itself as they headed back in the direction of the house.

  I wanted to close my eyes and sleep. Just for a minute. But I had to get moving, and fast. And I could no longer use the road. They were bound to do another sweep of the area. I had to outsmart them.

  I wished I knew how long I’d been out here. Could have been a single hour or several since my escape from the cabin. Time ceased all meaning in frigid temperatures, turning ten minutes into an hour, an hour into eternity.

  I’d give anything to be home, contemplating the prospect of shoveling two feet of snow off our long, winding driveway. Even with Agnes hanging out the window criticizing.

  My mother and I didn’t always see eye-to eye, heck, we never saw eye to eye, but I wanted her right now.

  I’m here.

  How had they discovered my absence? Had Laurel come back to gloat some more? Did Sam decided he wanted one final fuck? Or maybe they decided it was time to kill me, only to find me gone. I hope they howled in pain, rage, and fear when they realized I was missing.

  Did it matter? Eventually they’d hunt me down, unless I stayed one step ahead of them. That meant no more rest periods.

  Time passed, and I walked. The night lengthened, became a week, a month, years. I was walking through the remaining years of my life. During that long endless walk, I saw not a single sign of another person. I had never felt more alone in my entire life.

  You’re not alone. You have me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The sky began to lighten after an endless amount of time. I trudged on, one foot in front of the other. I should have felt relieved the eternal night was ending, but I was numb. I just wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep. Was it that dangerous to sleep in the cold? Weren’t there hikers who slept outside in extreme temperatures? Granted, they probably had the right equipment, tents, special sleeping bags, and hand warmers. They weren’t shivering beneath layers of sopping cotton.

  Agnes was with me the entire way, barking orders, insulting me when I faltered, cajoling me to take just another step. She was both my best friend and worst enemy rolled into one. Building me up just to cut me down with her legendary vinegar tongue.

  Look at this room, you lazy bitch!

  You’re nothing but a fucking cow! Moo, you bitch!

  No wonder you can’t land a man. Look at you. Just look at you.

  I’m going to be stuck with you forever. Good God, why was I so cursed?

  Her words slashed my sensitive soul to ribbons. I grew furious remembering, gaining energy from my anger, stalking through the snow muttering to her under my breath.

  “I hate you!” I said. “You shouldn’t have had kids. You were an awful parent, the worst, the kind of mother who eats her young.”

  The sky was glowing pink with the coming sunrise. I stared at it in disbelief. I was in hell. It wasn’t hot, it was an endless tundra, and I was condemned to trudge on forever towards a destination I’d never reach, my mother’s abuse ringing in my ears.

  Maybe I was already dead. Maybe they’d killed me, and my mind was blocking it out to protect me. Although it never offered the same protection from Agnes. There was no limit to her humiliation, no level too low for her to stoop when she was in a mood.

  I’m sorry. Why won’t you forgive me?

  I walked on, shaking off her apology. “You’re not sorry enough. You’ll never be sorry enough. And you didn’t say it when it mattered.”

  You’re beautiful, and special, and perfect, and I should have told you that every single day. I don’t know why I didn’t see that! And now it’s too late.

  “It’s not too late,” I sniffled. “It’s not too late, Ma. I love you. I’d give anything to have you back, even if we fight.”

  Boom Chucka Boom Chucka Boom Chucka Boom.

  That’s what the boys used to chant when I walked past them when I was twelve years old. I tried to avoid them, but they were always in the most inconvenient places. The stairwell. The entrance to the cafeteria. The foyer. There was no escaping them. Boom chucka boom chucka boom chucka boom.

  Just like Agnes. There was no escaping her either.

  Fuck. That wasn’t a memory of boys chanting, it was the frigging Jeep, headed straight for me. Lost in my reverie, I’d broken cover. I was walking along the side of the road, planning to duck into a ditch if I saw their headlights in the distance.

  But there were no headlights, not in broad daylight. Shit.

  Sam leaned out the window, his face filled with glee. “Woo hoo! Hello, darling!”

  I broke into a sprint. Five minutes ago, I didn’t have the energy. Now adrenaline was pumping through my veins as I sped through the woods, panic clutching my heart. I had a few minutes head start. They’d have to pull the Jeep over and get out.

  Let’s get real. I had seconds at the most. Sam was in a lot better shape than I was, and he hadn’t been walking all night. I needed to find a place to hide, fast!

  As if conjured up from the depths of my mind, a shed loomed up ahead, a dark snow- covered shape. Icicles glittered from the eaves. It appeared in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t see a house.

  I headed straight for it. I was almost there when my legs slid out from beneath me. I fell hard, but I didn’t have the luxury of nursing my injuries. I scrambled to my feet again, ignoring the stabbing pain that burned up my ankle into my calf as I limped towards shelter.

  The shed was unlocked. I shut the door shut behind me, hoping there was a way to bolt it from the inside. There wasn’t. No one was concerned with locking a shed in the middle of nowhere.

  I looked around for something I could use as a weapon. An axe, a shovel, even a hoe. There was nothing. The shed was empty. Except for something covered in dust and cobwebs in the corner. Ignoring my natural squeamishness regarding such objects, I picked it up. It was a rusty knife. I shoved it in my pocket.

  My fingers closed over the blade, all I had to defend myself.

  I heard the crunch of footsteps on the frozen snow. I held my breath.

  “Melody,” Laurel called, her voice loud in the crisp air, “come out. You don’t have to hide. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your sister.” She giggled as she uttered the last word.

  Those were the wrong words to say. I stayed put with my hand wrapped around the knife.

  “She’s in the shed,” Laurel said.

  There was a muffled response. I strained to hear, curious about who was with her, Sam, John, or both. Did it matter?

  “Melody,” Sam called. “Come out. Have some dignity. Don’t make us go in there after you.”

  “Try it,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as menacing as possible.

  The wooden door burst open. I brought the arm holding the knife back, ready to strike.

  It was Laurel. Her hair looked very blonde against her red and white snowflake pattern
cardigan. Her eyes glowed a brilliant blue. She looked fresh and pretty. Murder was rejuvenating.

  “Seriously?” she laughed, shaking her head. “You’re going to stab me? Come on.”

  “Take another step and you’ll find out,” I said.

  “The guys are right outside. There’s no escape.”

  “You’re probably right, but I plan on taking you with me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Guys,” she called over her shoulder. “She’s got a knife.”

  “Oh, please,” John said, joining her in the doorway. He put his hands up in mock fear. “Oh no, are you going to stab us?”

  “No,” I said, keeping my eyes on Laurel, “I’m going to stab her. You’re clearly going to kill me. There’s no way around it. But I’m taking her with me.”

  She smirked. “You’re so dramatic.”

  “And you’re a cunt.”

  Sam appeared behind them, stroking his chin. He looked at me. “Didn’t I tell you to trust me?”

  “Trust you? Are you kidding right now?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, ye of little faith.” He turned to John. “I just changed my mind. Why do we always have to kill my girlfriend? It’s not fair. Why don’t we kill yours instead?”

  Laurel whipped around in shock, her mouth forming a comical O.

  “Because your girlfriend will turn us into the cops,” John replied.

  “She won’t,” Sam said. “Melody’s loyal. Unlike your untrustworthy bitch. Damn, she threw her own sister under the bus! That’s cold. What makes you think she won’t turn on us?”

  “Loyal?” John guffawed. “What gave you that idea? The way she sucks your cock?”

  “No,” Sam said. “The way she alibied me for Lucy’s murder.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It was the fall of 1995, my third semester at SUNY Albany. The radio waves were filled with the sounds of Sheryl Crow, Hootie and the Blowfish, and Alanis Morrisette. And I was in love for the first time in my life. He shared an apartment with my roommate’s boyfriend a few streets from our dorm. His name was Sam Martin. He wasn’t a student at SUNY Albany. He was enrolled at Hudson Valley Community College.

  My roommate, Delia, practically lived at the apartment after she started dating Joe, who rented a small windowless room meant to be a laundry porch. I tagged along. My presence there was never questioned. I would collapse on the beat-up couch in the living room and someone would pass me a joint.

  I knew Sam had a girlfriend, although I didn’t know she was something as serious as a fiancée. It didn’t deter me in the slightest. The guy with the girlfriend at home was practically a cliché in college. It never lasted. Every guy cheated. They all ended up breaking up with the girl. Hometown relationships never withstood the temptation of hot college girls.

  But Sam wasn’t interested in other girls. He barely spared me a glance. And instead of playing beer pong with the rest of us, he locked himself in his bedroom and called his girl.

  I despaired. “Whatever,” Delia sighed. “There are so many guys around, who cares?”

  I took the bus back to campus the Sunday after Thanksgiving, arriving early in the afternoon. No one was back yet. Bored, I went to the apartment without Delia. Her boyfriend, Joe, was in residence, but he wasn’t feeling friendly. “I have to study for finals,” he said.

  For the first time, I felt unwelcome. It felt strange to sit on the couch alone watching television. None of the apartment’s occupants were hanging out with me, and Delia wasn’t back yet. I was contemplating leaving when Sam burst in, his face colorless except for two bright red spots of color high on his cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  He blinked as if seeing me for the first time. “Hey,” he said. “Want to go to a party?”

  “A party?” I repeated. “Sure.”

  It was an odd evening. There were a few parties going on, because there was always a party going on in Albany, but they were subdued affairs. People had finals to study for and papers to write.

  Everywhere we went, Sam was loud and obnoxious, which was out of character for him. He’d always been so laidback. He traded fists at one place over whether the Boston Red Sox were a better team than the Yankees, so the people hosting the party kicked us out.

  “Fuck them,” he spat. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere else” turned out to be a coffee shop where he got into a heated discussion with a girl with long flowing seventies hair and cat’s eyeglasses about whether people on food stamps should be able to buy whatever they want. “I’m sorry, if you’re on food stamps you shouldn’t be able to buy sirloin steak and top round roast beef and shrimp, shit my family can’t even afford,” Sam insisted.

  “Who are you, the food police?” she asked.

  At the end of the night, he took me to bed. It was my first time, and awkward as hell. I had no idea what to do. I stood in front of him like a child while he undressed me, feeling numb. Everything was happening too fast, but I was afraid if I put the brakes on, I wouldn’t get another chance. Life had taught me to snatch these small moments of fleeting happiness.

  The worst part was when he glanced at the wild tangle of hair between my legs and said, “You need to trim that, darling.” My cheeks burned. I felt like I’d failed some test, but Sam gently pushed me down on the mattress.

  I lay beneath him as he thrust in a frenzy. It hurt, but I didn’t dare complain. I didn’t want him to know I was a virgin. But he knew anyway. “There’s blood on my dick,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t apologize.”

  I felt I should reply, but I didn’t know what to say. Before I could think up the correct words, Sam began to snore. He’d fallen asleep.

  I lay awake beside him all night as he slept, watching the darkness fade into a gray, gloomy day. I didn’t care. I was ecstatic.

  He blinked at me in confusion when he woke, like he didn’t recall who I was or how I got there. When he spoke, his voice sounded like it was coming from a great distance. “Don’t you have a class?”

  I snuggled against him. “I can miss it, just this once.”

  Sam fell silent. I sensed disapproval emanating from him. He wanted to get rid of me. But maybe that was in my head. My abusive upbringing always made me assume the worst. I needed reassurance.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “Are you my boyfriend now?”

  He stiffened. I waited for his answer in agony. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it, and when it came, I should leave. But I probably wouldn’t have the strength.

  “Yeah, sure,” Sam said. He didn’t seem to care much one way or the other, which was a little insulting. On the other hand, he said yes.

  We hung out a few more times that week. Sam was distant. That didn’t seem right to me, but I thought maybe that was how new relationships were. I wouldn’t know, since this was my very first one. I bought a copy of the popular Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus which reinforced this theory. Sam was just in his cave, trying to deal with the intensity of his feelings for me.

  That didn’t seem right either, but it was what I wanted to hear, so I didn’t question it.

  Two weeks later, as the semester was winding down, Sam asked me to provide him with an alibi.

  “My fiancée,” he said. “My ex fiancée, Lucy. She’s been murdered.”

  My jaw dropped. I was shocked. Yet, a small mean part of me was glad, because she was no longer a threat. She couldn’t take him away from me. I didn’t have to worry about him cheating on me with her over Christmas break.

  “How?” I asked.

  Sam shook his head, shutting his eyes. Tears poured down his cheeks from beneath closed eyelids. I reached out a tentative hand and stroked his right shoulder. He shrank from my touch. “I can’t talk about it,” he said.

  “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Yes,�
� he said. “Yes, there is something you can do.”

  It was simple. I wasn’t lying outright. Just a little. We hung out into the early morning hours on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, we made love in his bed, and we had breakfast together at McDonald’s the next morning. That was all true. I could account for Sam’s whereabouts for a good fourteen hours.

  It wasn’t true that we were together since my bus arrived in Albany at one in the afternoon. Nor was it true that we started dating before Thanksgiving. Those were little white lies.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Sam said. “I drove back to the apartment late morning and took a nap. Then I went to the mall. I had lunch on the food court and browsed for a couple of hours, but I didn’t buy anything. It was crowded, so no witnesses. That’s why they think I killed Lucy, because I have no witnesses to account for my movements that day.”

  “How could they think you’re a murderer?” I asked, outraged.

  “Lucy broke up with me the day after Thanksgiving for a guy in her college. That’s why I need you to say we were already dating by then. The break-up needs to look mutual.” He passed a hand over his face, muffling his sobs. “God, this is such a nightmare!”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll tell them we were together all afternoon. That we’re in love. That you were planning to break things off with Lucy when you saw each other over Thanksgiving.” I would save the day. Then he’d have to love me.

  He gave me a real smile for the first time. “That would be fantastic. Thanks, Mel!”

  I alibied him. I swore out an affidavit and signed it.

  I was the reason Sam Martin never got arrested for Lucy’s murder. I made it possible for two serial killers to go on killing. And signed my own death warrant.

  My college relationship with Sam was short lived. My father had a stroke, and Agnes summoned me home. I knew we were doomed. Once I left Albany, I never heard from him again. I tried calling a few times, but he was never home. Or he coached his roommates to say he wasn’t.

  I never forgot Sam, never stopped loving him, never stopped believing we’d be together somehow, someday, although I knew the notion was insane. Over the years I googled him, searched for him on Facebook, but I never found him. Sam Martin was too common a name. There were at least a hundred in New York. The short period I spent with him began to take on the blurry tones of a dream. Sometimes I wondered if I imagined the whole thing out of loneliness and despair. Sam was a phantom.