Perpetuate

by K. C. Ale

  Carlson. He must know something. He was throwing hints at me on the way to my apartment. I don’t hesitate but select his number. The trip back from Sedona is about eight hours, but with the way Drivers Ed Carlson drives, it’s more like eleven. This means he won’t be back for several more hours.

  He answers on the second ring. “Miss Warton.”

  “Carlson, how far are you?”

  “Why?” he asks suspiciously.

  “For one, you’re in my car. I think I have a right to know.”

  A sigh. “I should be home around ten. I’ll leave your car in the driveway.”

  I hesitate, glancing at the closed bedroom door. After Brad put his foot down and refused to tell me anything else, I’d left him to his naked kitchen cleanup for my room. “Can I talk to you? When you get back, I mean. It’s important. I can stop by your place.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m pretty sure Mr. Hawkes would not like that.”

  “Carlson…” I might as well come right out with it. “Hope Sanctuary. How did Brad get my dad in so quickly? When I checked the website, it said it had a waiting list of about six months.” Brad might had thrown money around again, but I can’t imagine the regular clientele of such an upscale place wouldn’t be able to afford to do the same, yet there’s still a waiting list. “My dad was sober up until two months ago, so he couldn’t have already been on the waiting list.”

  “Miss Warton, this conversation would be best conducted with Mr. Hawkes.”

  “Hope is my middle name,” I throw out there.

  Exasperated at my persistence, Carlson replies. “I know.”

  I close my eyes, dreading my next question, but I know I have to ask. “Was it named after me?”

  “Yeah.” A long, heavy exhale. “It was.”

  My hand tightens on the phone. “Did Brad have something to do with my dad’s new job?”

  “Peter Warton has a new job?” Now he sounds surprised. “Where at?”

  “At Hope Sanctuary,” I supply wryly.

  “Ah… I get it now. You think Mr. Hawkes arranged it. Well, I suppose he could have, but I would’ve known about it. He founded the treatment center, but he can’t possibly run it and HC. He has reliable people for that.”

  “I see.” That makes me feel slightly better, but there are still too many question marks between us. “Carlson, I just need some answers. Mr. Hawkes… he told me.”

  There’s startled silence.

  “Carlson?” A cursory look at the screen tells me he hasn’t disconnected. “I have so many questions, and you’re probably one of very few people who might have the answers.”

  “Have you tried asking Mr. Hawkes?”

  “I can’t. I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Battling back a sudden onslaught of emotions, I murmur achingly, “He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “No, Miss Warton. He’s done a lot of things, been to many places, but he’s never been dead.”

  Thirty-four

  Brad

  Bull gave her away. Quite innocently.

  No artificial lights disrupt the darkness in my office. The French doors frame the shadowed patio and rear garden, inviting obscurity from the outside in. Sitting back in the chair with my feet propped atop the desk, I stare at blank air and work hard at coming up with various creative ways to wring my own neck.

  How did we end up like this?

  Gemma isn’t speaking to me. Again. Only this time, it’s not jealous indignation. It’s much worse and not something I can attempt to smooth over with colorful flowers and a lifetime supply of Kit Kat.

  Laying on the rug near my chair, Bull’s little head is propped atop his paws. Unlike Gemma, he doesn’t mind my miserable company. He appreciated my efforts to feed him and didn’t throw a ham and cheese sandwich, painstakingly made crust-free, back at me and stormed off. Then proceeded to deftly ignore all my short-lived struggles at conversations through the persistently locked door.

  Perhaps she just needs time. Lord knows learning I’m not dead after all these years was quite the bombshell. Gemma is too stubborn for her own good. Once she makes up her mind about something, it takes an act of epic proportions to change her mind. As I’m learning fast, that includes her mulish belief that I’m dead.

  Which doesn’t leave us in a good spot. It’s too bad I outgrew my recklessness years ago, because I can really use a drink or ten right now.

  Except I’m not my father.

  The dog’s head abruptly lurches, his ears perking up and his dark eyes trained on something outside.

  The patio lights are off, the chirping crickets in full force. There’s not much going on out there other than a possible squirrel darting up a tree.

  Bull jumps to his feet, padding over to press his wet nose against the dim glass.

  That’s when I see it. A familiar small shadow creeping on the pathway.

  Gemma.

  What the hell?

  My feet slap on the rug and I lean over, squinting through the opaque window to the lawn and shaded bushes.

  She’s dressed in all black. At least, that’s what it looks like from this distance. Her strides are purposeful but cautiously light, trying to mingle with stillness. She’s not exactly tiptoeing, but it’s no casual stroll.

  The stone walkway leads directly to the guesthouse. The one Carlson occupies.

  He got back a half an hour ago, dropping off Gemma’s keys with barely a word to me – guess he joined the silent treatment club – and took off.

  Gemma is trying to sneak to Carlson’s. At night. Without a word to me.

  I’m going to kill Carlson.

  As gently as possible, I push to my feet. Bull immediately steps aside, anticipating my next move. As soon as the slinking form disappears down the path, I quietly unlock the French doors.

  “Stay,” I order in a firm whisper.

  Whining a little, Bull’s head tips to one side, but he doesn’t try to dart out to the quiet garden.

  Slipping out, I latch the door softly behind me and silently track Gemma’s route, staying close to the low hedges. I immediately dash behind a young tree when I catch sight of her darkened figure. Her light steps falter as though suddenly sensing someone, warily peeking over first one shoulder then the other, her gaze lingering on the main house. Even through the fifteen feet of gloomy distance, I can see the sadness that ghosts over her pretty features. My chest tightens, wishing like hell I can magically make things better for her.

  Maybe that’s why she’s going to Carlson.

  On a stout inhale, Gemma goes on the move again. This time her determined motions carry more urgency than stealth. I don’t hesitate but immediately keep step.

  Carlson is leaning against his doorframe, his huge form silhouetted by the lights blazing from inside as Gemma approaches.

  So he’s expecting her. Motherfucker.

  Though I’m fuming, I linger behind a small shed housing miscellaneous gardening equipment. There’s no need to announce myself yet. Call it morbid curiosity.

  “Hey, Carlson.” Tentative, Gemma stalls a few feet in front of the traitor. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Miss Warton.”

  Without warning my guard stills, his gaze flicking up into the night and seemingly right at me. I haven’t moved, hardly breathed. The night and the shed should conceal me, but Carlson is intuitive and always on alert. He might not know for certain I’m out here, but his nose is definitely on the scent.

  “May I come in?” Gemma asks, oblivious to Carlson’s watchful anticipation. “It’s kind of dark out here.”

  You better say no, you asshole.

  There’s a hesitation, brief but there, before he quietly steps aside.

  I am going to kill him. And it will be a slow, painful death.

  Seething, I watch the door ease shut, closing them in. I wait a beat before scurrying out and going straight for the window at the side of the house. I swear, if they’re going to his bedroom…

 
Through the sliver of a gap in the shutter, I can just make out Carlson’s hulking form and a much more petite female in his living room. She appears to be glancing around the cozy but neat space.

  Gemma picks up a framed photo from the shelf next to the fireplace. “Are they your parents?”

  “Yes.”

  One word, but she doesn’t let that stiff tone deter her. “Are they still around?”

  “Just my mother.”

  She replaces it for another. “This is you… with Hawkes.”

  I know that photo. Taken years ago, it was us at HC’s first worksite.

  “Yes,” he says again.

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Since we were both sixteen.”

  “That’s a long time,” she observes, carefully setting the frame back on its place.

  “About thirteen years.” He pauses, coming up behind her to gaze at the photo over her head. “We met at Brickton.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A juvenile detention center.”

  She turns cautiously. “Brad Hawkes was at juvie? Why?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  He’s shaking his head. “Miss Warton, I suggest you have this discussion with Mr. Hawkes.”

  “Did he know Lee?” she asks desperately, ignoring his reluctance. “Did Lee tell him all those things about me? Was that how he knew? Oh my God.” Her hand flies up to her mouth at a sudden horrifying thought. “Did he kill Lee?”

  “Miss War—”

  “Did he? Tell me, Carlson.” Even from this distance I can see her starting to tremble. “I need to know. Is that why I’m here? Am I some sick joke to him?”

  He rubs at the back of his neck, clearly torn. Then, “Yeah, Mr. Hawkes killed Lee, but not the way you think.”

  Gemma bursts into wild sobbing, her legs giving out and her knees hitting the floor in undefinable agony.

  That’s when I surge through the night and heedlessly barge right through the front door. Gemma is curled over herself, her entire body quaking violently as she cries the most heartbroken tears I’d ever heard.

  “Gemmy.” I’m crouching next to her in a second. “Don’t cry. I’m right here.”

  She rears back with absolute hate and repulson. Her face is saturated with tears. “Get away from me! You murderer!”

  “No, Gemmy.” I soften my voice, anxiously hoping that would help her to listen. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You killed Lee!”

  “Listen to me, I’m—”

  “No! You stay away,” she shrieks hysterically, scooting back on her ass as fast as she can manage. “Stay away from me. I never want to see you again.”

  Carlson tries to help her up, but she immediately scampers away from him. “Miss Warton, I didn’t mean Mr. Hawkes literally killed Lee. I was speaking metaphorically.”

  Great, Carlson. Just shut the fuck up.

  “You both killed him,” she accuses, tears running freely down her cheeks. “You killed Lee. You killed him.” She leaps to her feet.

  “Gemma!” I’m on her before she can break for the door, hefting her up with one arm. A bloodcurdling scream shoots through the house. I slap a palm over her mouth. Her panicked body writhes and struggles against me, painful tears saturating my hand. “Listen to me, Gemma. I did not kill Lee. Okay? I did not kill anyone. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.” My forehead drops to the top of her head even as she shudders uncontrollably in my arms. “I came home early one night because I had a fight with one of my buddies. My father was home, drunk off his ass. You were there too.”

  She’s still weeping, but I can tell she’s finally paying attention to my hesitant words.

  “Peter was nowhere in sight. He was on one of his sober periods. That should’ve been the first clue that something wasn’t right.”

  “Come over here, boy,” my father slurred when I stopped short. He was on the worn couch, eyes red-rimmed and face clammy. “Lookie what I got here. She came looking for you. Figured I’d keep her entertained.”

  Trapped between my father’s spread knees, her back to his front, Gemma’s small shoulders were stiff while the rest of her visibly quaked. His rough hands were on her narrow hips to keep her in place.

  She was staring at me, vacant yet terrified. “I wan..na…go…home…Lee,” she sniffs in a tiny voice.

  “His name is Brad!” Gemma’s head snapped back as he jolted her with ruthless force. “Stop calling him Lee.”

  I was fighting my own terror, dread like nothing I experienced slashing me from the inside out. “What the fuck are you doing?” Because those ugly, despicable hands on her hips? They were beginning to move over her quivering stomach.

  Gemma wasn’t the only one trembling, except mine was with unadulterated rage.

  The ominous leer contorted his already devious features to absolute evil. “How about your old man have her first? You can have her when I’m done. Betcha she’s tight.”

  Gemma made a sound. A frightened whimper from a broken animal that knew without a doubt it was dying.

  I fucking lost it then.

  It was a blur. Gemma jostled aside. My fists flying out. Furious muscles brutally connected to my father’s face over and over and over again. He didn’t see it coming. He’d always been a stupid ass drunk.

  Gemma screaming at me to stop. That I was killing him.

  I didn’t give a fuck.

  When his bloody body crumpled to the floor, harsh air seesawing out of him, that was when I started kicking.

  “No, Lee! He’s dying. You have to stop!”

  I kept kicking him, my long leg rearing back and slamming into his ribs with all my force. He needed to die for touching Gemma.

  “Stop, Lee! Please stop.”

  Small anxious hands trying to pull me back and a frantic voice finally penetrated through the haze of bloody wrath, my own breaths jerky and my knuckles torn.

  Gemma was gaping at the mess that was my father, her panicked expression contorted with shock and utter fear.

  I stared down at him, my heart still pumping with mad adrenaline. My father’s face was unrecognizable, swollen to twice its size, the skin shredded. He wasn’t moving, but I could see his chest juddering for desperate air.

  Shit. This wasn’t going to end well.

  “Lee…Lee, he’s dead. What do we do?”

  I seized her quivering shoulders and wrenched her away from the menacing scene. “We have to go, Gemmy.”

  “He’s dead, Lee! You killed him!”

  “We can’t be here. Come on! We gotta go!”

  “You were just ten at the time. I think you went into shock. I took you home, but I couldn’t hang out there. I told Peter what happened. Hell, I was a kid myself and scared shitless. I knew my father wasn’t dead. As soon as he was able, he’d call the cops on me. And I was right. Peter… he gave me some money. Helped me to run.”

  Thirty-five

  Gemma

  Staggered, my stunned body sag against Brad. Or Lee. Or whoever he is.

  His face is pressed against me, his breaths hot and jerky on my hair. “I didn’t want you to remember.” The hand drops from my mouth. “Not that.”

  I don’t. Not really. Not with details, and certainly not of Lee’s father’s prone form, beaten unconscious by his raging teenage son. What I do recall now is seeing my dad cry for the first time before Lee disappeared. And Lee, petrified and trying desperately not to show it.

  The cops came to ask questions, looking for Lee, but my dad told them nothing. I was ordered to stay in my room each time they came knocking. I was small and could be unobtrusive when I wanted to be, and I eavesdropped into their informal interrogation. Lee had taken off. Hiding out for days. Every time the cops asked my dad if he knew where Lee was, he lied, even fabricating disgust over his daughter having been friends with such a delinquent. My father wasn’t a bad liar. Years of practice ensured that, but I could tell the difference even
at a young age.

  “You went back. To the house,” I say, though my watery gaze is trained on the far wall, the image of him skulking around the small backyard is vivid in my head. “Mrs. B from down the street called the police. Why did you go back?” Fresh tears threaten, but I ruthlessly swallow them back. “Why didn’t you run away?”

  His hold on me loosens. “I don’t know. I couldn’t,” he immediately corrects.

  I’m already turning, needing to read his face. Every fiber in me is screaming for answers. “Why?” He only shakes his head, eyes pained by our excruciating past. “You knew they were looking for you. Why did you go back?”

  “It isn’t important anymore. Let it go.”

  “Was it your father?” I press. “Did he not survive his injuries after all?”

  “No. He died a few years later.” His lips tighten. “Drunk driving. Crashed into the side of a building.”

  “Then why, Brad? Why did you risk being taken?” Realizing there’s more than one person in the room who might be able to give me answers, I search for Carlson, intent on making him spill if Brad won’t, but he’s nowhere in sight.

  As if reading my mind, Brad declares, “Don’t bother asking Carlson. He doesn’t know.”

  “Then I’ll ask my father.”

  “What makes you think he has any idea?”

  Just a hunch. “He was the first person you confessed to about that night. He might’ve been the only person who knew where you were hiding and how to get a hold of you. My guess is he knew you were returning and why.”

  Again with the head shake. “You’re wrong. He had no clue I would go back.”

  But he did know why.

  Then it hits me. The crushing thought has me falling back a step.

  “It was because of me, wasn’t it?” I stare at him, wide-eyed. “Tell me you didn’t go back because of me. They took you away, locked you up because of me.”

  “Listen to me, Gemma.” Fierce and always protective, his hands clutch my arms. “You were in no way responsible for what happened.”

  “Dad told you,” I deduce, eyes blurring despite teeth-gritting efforts. “Dad told you I was having a hard time. That I was having nightmares. He started drinking again. My father.” It’s all coming back to me now. Not about Lee’s father and what he did or Lee’s subsequent reaction, because I don’t think my sheltering mind will ever fully resurrect that. “You couldn’t stay away, even when your life depended on it.”