Devil's Creek

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  The pastor spoke quickly now, trying to sound dignified but obviously hurrying for the sake of the attendees.

  A splash of rain pelted the casket. Another. And another.

  In a flash, the skies opened in a drenching downpour. Daisy shrieked. Grace leaned into Anderson. And Portia screamed.

  Through the cloudburst, Anderson snapped his head toward Portia, who lay crumpled on the ground clutching her stomach. The pastor stopped with a quick “Amen,” and almost everyone scattered, shrieking as if the rain would melt them. Grace had already made it to Portia’s side, where Boone crouched beside his wife, throwing his jacket over her shoulders.

  “What’s wrong?” Grace shrieked above the deafening storm.

  Boone shouted through the wind. “Her water broke. And her contractions started. We think it’s for real this time.”

  The pastor showed up at Anderson’s side. “Do you need an ambulance?” he cried.

  Boone shook his head, lifted his pregnant wife in his massive arms, and strode toward the parking lot. “No. I’ll drive her.” In seconds they were hidden by the driving sheets of rain.

  Grace leaned into Anderson’s ear. “I’m going with her. I’ll call you when I know anything.” Anderson agreed, and Grace ran through the rain with her parents, who followed quickly in Boone’s wake.

  In minutes, Anderson was left alone in the rain with Sunny and the pastor, who quickly made his own exit.

  Sunny stood motionless by the grave, rain streaming down her face. Anderson couldn’t tell if she was still crying, but she didn’t seem to notice the deluge.

  Lightning crackled nearby, hitting the tall pine at the top of the hill.

  As if waking from a dream, she turned to him. “Our girl’s gone, Anderson.”

  He reached for her cold hand. “Yes.”

  She looked upward, letting the rain coat her eyes, nose, and mouth. “Do you think she’s putting on this show for us?”

  He laughed, in spite of the tension in his body. “Maybe so. She always did like to play little jokes, didn’t she?”

  “Let’s sing it one more time.”

  He didn’t have to ask what she meant. He sang all of the verses of ‘Amazing Grace,’ with Sunny joining in on the parts she knew. Soaked to the skin now, they smiled at each other when it was over.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He blinked through the rain pouring down his face. “You’re welcome.”

  “Come by next week?” she asked. “I’d like to meet your wife properly. Maybe I’ll cook a nice roast for you.”

  “Sounds good.” He leaned down to kiss her and watched her trot toward her beat up VW with the psychedelic stickers all over the fender. When she’d driven away, he stood for a long while in the rain, staring down at the casket and thinking of his lost love.

  Chapter 59

  It was just a blurry shadow at first; a whisper of movement in the dark that flitted in the corner of Anderson’s peripheral vision.

  He frowned and waited, squinting into the soggy afternoon.

  Did I imagine it?

  He scrubbed the rain from his face. Before he could turn to scan the area, something hit him—hard—on the back of his head.

  Down he went, face first into the mud. Instincts took over, and he flipped, grabbing his opponent and kicking hard with both feet into the man’s stomach. Rain pelted him, nearly blinding him, but he saw the figure lurch back to his feet and draw a gun.

  Hank.

  Who else?

  The man glared at him, water streaking off his spiked hair. “Not another step, or I’ll shoot, you son of a bitch. You wanna lie in the grave with your darling Caroline?”

  Of course. Hank wanted to be there for the ceremony, didn’t he? He probably wanted to gloat. Dunne had said something about this possibility playing out. He’d actually tried to warn Anderson that Hank might show up.

  But now there was no one and nothing on the grassy stretch of land. Nothing but spirits and gravestones and big, sloppy puddles.

  Anderson got to his feet, his hands hanging at his sides. “Go ahead. Shoot me.” He glowered at Hank, feeling resigned. He was dulled inside. Broken. And he really didn’t care in that moment if he lived or died.

  Hank stepped closer. “Yeah?” The gun wavered in his hands. “Really?”

  Was he shaking from nerves? Or maybe from no sleep or food? A man on the run usually suffered all of the above.

  “Really.” He gestured toward the gun. “I’m tired, Hank. Tired of you. Tired of life.”

  Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Are you tired of your gorgeous wife, asshole? ‘Cause maybe I’ll find a way to make her suffer real good after I plug you in the face.”

  Anderson stiffened. “Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with you and me.”

  The gun lowered a fraction of an inch. Rain pelted off the barrel, spitting into the shadows. “No. You’re right. Grace was a good fuck. But it really wasn’t about her, was it? It’s been about Caroline all along.” He scowled at Anderson. “You stole her from me, plain and simple.”

  Anger surged through Anderson’s body. “Christ, Hank. That was nineteen years ago! Seriously?”

  “You took her from me. I was supposed to marry her.”

  “What?”

  “I planned to ask her right after high school graduation.”

  “Did you? Did you propose to her?” Anderson asked. He was starting to shiver in the icy rain.

  “I never got the chance. But I had the ring. And I was about to ask her when she broke it off.” He howled at the sky, as if she were there, taunting him. “She was my life, Anderson. My LIFE. And you stole her from me.”

  “Wait a minute. Didn’t she say she broke up with you before she came to the university?”

  Hank’s eyes flickered. He’d hit a sore spot.

  Anderson continued. “You can’t have something stolen that isn’t yours to begin with, now, can you?” Anderson fisted his hands at his side, tensing, ready to attack when the time was right. “Can you?”

  “You’re full of crap, Anderson. You stole her.”

  “Really?” Anderson stepped forward a few inches, leaning toward Hank’s face. “You never could accept the idea that she rejected you, could you? You can’t give me up as the guy who wronged you. You need me. You need to hate me. Otherwise, who would you fixate on for the rest of your life?”

  Hank spoke in a robotic voice, with no inflection. “Your life is over, soon as I pull this trigger. So, now I can die happy.” A weird smile wrinkled his lips. He watched with glazed eyes. Rain dripped from his eyebrows and lashes onto his cheeks, splashing on his soaked denim shirt.

  Is he gonna kill me, then shoot himself? At Caroline’s grave? How perfect. Anderson’s inner brain laughed hysterically at the thought, but he reined it in and tried to focus. A piece of him wanted to live, to survive.

  Keep him talking.

  He raised his voice, trying to urge Hank out of the monotone state into which he’d fallen. “Hank.” He waited until the man locked eyes with him. “Would Murphy approve of this?”

  “What? Murphy?”

  “We found the book you were writing about him. He’s your hero, isn’t he? Did he tell you how to capture Grace? Did he lead you by the hand?”

  Hank’s face darkened. “No. That bastard isn’t so clever. I was going to give him notoriety. He would have been famous. But he doesn’t appreciate me.”

  “How so?” Anderson edged toward him.

  “He complains all the time that I don’t give him enough credit for his kills. He says I’m trying to rewrite history.”

  “Are you?”

  Hank’s gun hand lowered another inch. “No. I write everything the way he tells me.”

  “So, was he nuts? He couldn’t remember one kill from the next?”

  “No. I—.”

  “Wait a minute.” Anderson stopped him with a hand in the air. It occurred to him that Hank probably hadn’t seen the news reports about Murphy�
��s suicide. “You know he’s dead, right?”

  Hank’s jaw dropped. “What the hell?”

  “I said he’s dead. Hung himself.”

  Hank ran his free hand through his sopping hair, brandishing the gun in the air. “That’s not possible. I just talked to him.”

  “It happened last weekend.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s been all over the news.”

  Hank sank to his haunches, still holding the gun loosely in one hand. He ran his fingers across his face, as if trying to rub away the truth. “It can’t be.”

  “Disappointed?” Anderson said. “Sorry you can’t brag to him about killing me?”

  Hank’s face darkened, and he stood. “You bet I am. Now move over to that casket.”

  This was an unexpected twist. Anderson raised an eyebrow and shuffled backwards as Hank bore down on him with his gun.

  “Move!”

  The man leaned over the casket, which was poised at the top of the grave inside a chrome frame with green straps which would ultimately lower the box to the bottom of the hole. But all personnel had disappeared when the storm started, so the creamy white box with silver accents remained at the top of the pit. He hammered at the latches, hands slipping in the rain. “Open, damn it!”

  “What? You’re gonna put me in there with Caroline’s bones?” Anderson almost laughed out loud. It was absurd. Like some kind of dramatic teenage novella. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  Hank raised his eyes to Anderson. He pulled back and shot off the first latch. Metal pieces splintered in to the air.

  Had anyone heard? With the thunder and lightning raging all around them, Anderson doubted it.

  The second latch required three shots. Hank seemed to be losing strength and focus.

  “Damnation!” he screamed, waving the gun again at Anderson’s chest. “Move back. You’re too close!”

  Anderson shook his head. “No.”

  Maybe this is the easiest form of courage, when you really don’t care whether you live or die. In Heaven, he’d be with Caroline. And his life on earth with Grace sure wasn’t working out so well. So, screw it. Let’s see what happens if I push him further.

  He stepped forward. “Want me to take a crack at the last one?”

  Hank bellowed at him. “No! I’ve got this!”

  Anderson crossed his arms and smiled. “Go for it.”

  Hank aimed at the last latch, but it didn’t explode like the others. He pulled the trigger again, hands wobbling. Finally, he swiped at the moisture on his eyes and narrowed his eyes. The latch blew apart.

  With a deep breath, Hank heaved open the cover.

  Arranged in a neat pile on a pillow of pink satin were Caroline’s bones.

  White bones.

  Like fat toothpicks with knobby ends, they lay quietly, making no judgment.

  Anderson stared.

  That’s all that’s left of her. My dear Caroline.

  He ignored Hank’s next words. Something about moving over to the casket.

  “Huh? What?”

  “Over here,” he gestured with his gun. “Stand right here.”

  Anderson smiled. “How about I put you inside this box, hey psycho?” Tired of the horseplay, sick of waiting for Hank to make his move, he lunged for Hank’s knees and knocked him to the ground, shaking the casket on its perch. Hank surprised him with a swift kick to the neck, knocking him sideways with a hoarse scream. Hank scrambled for the gun, and his fingers closed over it.

  Anderson rolled to his side and jumped to his feet, springing onto Hank’s back.

  Hank circled wide around the casket, trying to dislodge his attacker. He hobbled to the nearest tree and smashed Anderson against it.

  “Get off me!” Hank growled.

  Anderson held on, but the second and third time Hank crashed into the tree, he felt his grip loosen. Releasing his grasp on Hank’s arms, he reached around to dig his thumbs into Hank’s eye sockets.

  The man roared in pain, falling to the ground. Anderson tumbled to the ground as well, and both men lay panting.

  Anderson groaned. Searing pain flamed in his spine, crippling him momentarily.

  Hank sat up first, still breathing hard. With red eyes that streamed tears mixing with rain, he grinned and lodged the gun against Anderson’s temple. “It’s over, asshole.”

  Anderson moaned again. “So pull the fucking trigger.”

  A voice came from beyond the trees. “Henry Turner. This is the police. Put the gun down.”

  Anderson’s brain was fuzzy, but he idly wondered if he’d been transported into a movie. Were the good guys really riding in on their white horses to save him?

  At this point, he had to admit, he was relieved. He could barely feel his legs.

  Hank pulled back—still sitting on the ground—and glanced around in panic. “No! I’ll kill him if you don’t back off.”

  A shot came out of the dark, winging Hank in the shoulder. He curled to the side, sat up slowly, and wailed, “You’re not putting me behind bars.”

  “I beg to disagree,” Dunne said. He and his men formed a circle around them, each man armed and pointing a weapon at Hank’s heart. Dunne shouted to him again. “Put it down, Hank.”

  “I’m outta here.” Hank rapidly stuck the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 60

  Anderson shifted on the hospital bed and watched the Korean doctor sashay out of the room. She’d been good to him over the past month, and he felt hopeful that he’d literally be on his feet in no time.

  Grace appeared in the doorway with yet another bouquet of flowers. This time, it was a bunch of wildflowers she must have picked from the Bittersweet Hollow pastures. She swept into the room, dumped out a water container, and filled it with fresh water from the sink. “Here you go, baby.”

  She plopped the posies into the water and set it on the shelf by the window next to the other six vases she’d given him during her visits of the past week. With a cheerful grin, she leaned over to kiss him. “I just talked to your doctor in the hallway. She says the swelling’s coming down nicely, and she was able to measure full response in your legs today.”

  He wiggled his feet and smiled. “Yep. I’m almost ready to go salsa dancing.”

  She slid onto the bed and cuddled beside him. “I’ll hold you to that, big guy.”

  A sense of warmth slid through him. Something was giving way now, letting go. The anger had faded, the love was returning. He felt a tug of hope rising from his heart. Hope that they’d make it as a couple. That he and Grace would finally have a future together.

  Facing death and almost losing his legs had put everything in perspective. When Hank had blown his own brains out, something inside Anderson had snapped back into position, and he’d come around to his senses. The depression he’d been feeling for the previous few weeks had vanished, as if evaporating into the bright blue August sky.

  He knew it now. He wanted to live. He wanted Grace in his life.

  “Honey?” She almost purred the word.

  “Yes?” He stroked her hair, loving the silky feel of it.

  She sat up and faced him. “I’m giving you my solemn promise. I’m never giving into that itch again. Never.”

  He studied her eyes, her face. She seemed sincere.

  “Thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say. And he wanted to trust her.

  “I’ve been working through it with my therapist. We’re meeting every day. But you already know that.”

  “I’m glad,” he said honestly. “Is she good?”

  “Oh, so much better than the last one. I feel like I can tell her anything, and she doesn’t judge me at all. She just understands. And she helps me figure out stuff. Like why I’m tempted to flirt with danger. That kind of thing.”

  “Then she’s worth every penny.” He didn’t mention that the insurance only paid for a few visits a month, and that he’d practically have to mortgage the hous
e to cover these appointments. But it was worth it.

  She smiled. “Yeah.”

  After a few minutes of easy silence, he said, “Boone came by to see me this morning. He said Portia and the baby are doing great. Kept smiling like a kid tasting his first ice cream cone. I love that they’re calling the baby Dirk, after your father.”

  “Isn’t it special?” she beamed. “That baby has already stolen our hearts. I can’t wait until you meet him.”

  “Me, too.”

  She tossed her hair back and pulled it into a ponytail, circling it with the hair tie she always seemed to have in her purse. “Change of subject. I love our cottage. I really do, honey. But it’s not the same without you there. I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m still living with Mom and Dad.”

  “Well, that’s fine. You need family around you. You’ve been through hell and back.”

  “You, too,” she said quietly. “And I did it to you. It was all my fault.”

  “Shh.” He touched two fingers to her lips. “We’re not playing the blame game, Grace. We’re starting over; starting fresh. We have our whole lives to make this work, and I’m not giving up on you.”

  Tears spilled from her eyes. “I thought maybe you had given up on me, last month. I felt coldness coming from you. Like never before.” She eased off the bed and stood by the window. “I was so afraid I’d lose you, Anderson.”

  He shifted forward, pressing the button to raise the back of his bed. “I’m here till the end, Gracie. Till the end.”

  “That’s good, honey. ‘Cause I’ve got something to tell you.” She walked back to the bed and took his hand in hers.

  His interest piqued. “What is it?”

  She just smiled at him.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, lady.”

  “Okay.” She hopped back onto the bed and cupped his face with her hands. “Anderson, you’re gonna be a daddy.”

  Anderson’s heart began to hammer. Him? A father? After all these years?

  After all the disappointing months where nothing had seemed to work between them? After all the negative pregnancy tests? It seemed impossible.

  His heart soared with joy, and then plummeted again. How did she know the baby was his? What if the child were Hank’s? He didn’t want to spoil the moment. Not now. But he had to ask.