by C Thomas Cox
The remainder of the beige walls in the five-by-ten room were littered with eight-by-ten photographs framed in cheap plastic. As I crept around the room, I learned that, of the twenty-odd pictures, all but one depicted men within a few years of my age, several of whom were asleep. The remaining photo depicted a smiling middle-aged woman on whose nose someone drew a misshapen pink pig snout. A large red X was drawn over each of the pictures.
I was confident that the woman bearing the pig snout was Thomas ill-fated mother. And I was convinced that these were the men who Thomas had referred to as grandpa. I prayed that I was wrong about both.
I opened the fridge, hoping that I didn't find a severed head inside. Instead, I was shocked to learn that it was empty. Apparently, Thomas used his last remaining food for breakfast. Perhaps he was going to pick up groceries while he was out.
I shifted to the closest cabinet and opened the door to reveal half a dozen blue plastic plates and a similar number of matching cups. I found nothing else of interest.
When I opened the second cabinet, however, I found more than twenty pig mugs resting on the bottom and middle shelves. From pink mugs with a painted pig face to those with a three-dimensional plastic snout and tail protruding from the front and rear, respectively, the cabinet's content was a pig-lovers dream -- and a bit player in my nightmare.
In the top shelf of the cabinet -- which I was only able to reach by sliding the fridge and standing on its top -- I found a home DNA test. Beneath that test, a red chisel-tip permanent marker lay on the rear surface of an upside-down photograph. I held the boxed test in place while I slid out the photograph. I gripped the picture between my thumb and forefinger and flipped it over.
I stared at the image of me sleeping in the recliner -- and then I dropped it. It fluttered to the counter and landed face up, where I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I was next.
I returned the picture, hopped off of the fridge, and slid the appliance back into place. I closed the kitchen and headed out its doorway.
I dashed to the window, opened the blind, and glanced around for any sign of Thomas. He was nowhere to be found. As I watched for any movement, though, my eyes were again drawn to the mounds of dirt surrounding the shack. I realized something that I was ashamed I hadn't figured out earlier. Each mound was slightly larger than a man's body. And a pair of spade shovels lying just beyond the last mound appeared ready to dig. I screamed so loud the house shook.
After taking a few seconds to calm down, I rushed over to the loose kitchen door. I grabbed it by its sides and lifted, positioning it horizontally as I did so. I then barreled, the door in my arms, toward the window. The door would be the javelin I would use to destroy it.
As I made impact, however, I was forced to recoil. I heard a dull thud rather than the high-pitched shattering of glass I expected. I dropped the heavy door and tapped on the window. Tempered glass. Additionally, the vinyl frame appeared to be reinforced with steel or some other structurally sound metal. It wouldn’t budge.
I pounded my fists against the seemingly unbreakable glass. "Dammit!" I stared blankly out the window toward the shovels, wondering when Thomas was going to begin digging my permanent resting place.
In the distance two figures emerged from the trail at a breakneck pace, each clutching a large plastic bag. Within seconds, I could tell that the figure to the left was Thomas. To his right was a woman in a pastel pink waitress's one piece that made me think she worked in a local diner -- the place from which the bags -- which appeared to contain takeout -- likely originated. She was perhaps a few years his senior.
I drew the blinds shut, did my best to shove the kitchen door back into place, and dropped the pins back into the hinges. Keys turned the locked barrels of the front door’s deadbolts as I scrambled to figure out how to close the kitchen door from the outside. But no matter what I tried, the damaged doorframe wouldn't allow the knob’s latch to engage. I dashed back to the recliner, praying that Thomas wouldn't notice that the kitchen door was slightly ajar -- though I knew he wouldn’t miss it.
"So," Thomas said. "Did you really think you could escape, gramps?" He was, of course, referring to my failed attempt to break through the window. He slammed the front door shut while the woman took the keys and engaged the locks. Although just a few years older than him, purple bags under her eyes and a bruise on top of her distinct left cheekbone disturbed me. Her pale complexion made her appear nearly albino, and her slight build contrasted against Thomas's average size -- empty fridge notwithstanding.
"Are you okay?" I asked her as I rose to my feet.
"She's fine," Thomas said before she had a chance to reply. She touched the bruise with her index finger. He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward me. "Thomas, meet my sister Liz." I wasn't shocked that he brought his sister to meet me, as his story of his childhood -- if true -- led me to believe that perhaps their shared suffering brought them close together. Besides, he already revealed that he used her condominium as his mailing address. I was surprised, however, that he seemed to be her puppeteer.
I stood and held out my hand. She laid her hand in my palm, and I shook it as though I held a dried and wilted flower petal. A petal that too strong of a grip could turn to powder.
"You jerkface!" Thomas blurted when he noticed the kitchen door. "You broke my door frame!" He held the doorknob and opened the door. He then closed it. He repeated his somber exercise a half dozen times before turning back to me. That he was more concerned about the frame than me seeing inside the kitchen concerned me. That he used jerkface as his expletive of choice made me wonder whether his mind dwelled in third grade. "If you would've just asked, I would've unlocked the door." Instead of rage, the tears streaking down his face reflected the sadness of a boy whose toy was broken.
"I'm sorry," I said after I released Liz's hand.
"It's okay," Thomas said more to himself than to me. "It'll be okay."
While he practiced deep breathing exercises, Liz dashed to the kitchen door and knelt in front of it. She fiddled with the knob and tried unsuccessfully to shove the door closed.
As soon as Thomas noticed she was trying to fix it, he grabbed her shoulders and yanked her away. She lost her balance and her back slammed against the plywood floor. "Why do you think you'll be able to fix it?" he said. Spit flew from his mouth and dotted her uniform. I took a step toward him.
She curled into the fetal position and covered her face with her hands, as if she expected Thomas to deal a vicious blow. If he did so, I would've pounced -- even with the pistol in his pocket threatening to do me in. I couldn’t stand to watch any man harm a member of the better sex, let alone his own sister.
"Jim," he said. He looked at me and grinned broadly, as though he hadn't just lost his composure. His eyes still appeared bloodshot, but they no longer shed tears. "I'll need you to fix this." He pointed to the damaged frame. I wanted to tell him that, due to my carpentry shortcomings, Liz would be more likely to fix it than I, but instead I nodded. "But first, let's talk about the kitchen. No need to keep secrets."
Liz rolled out of the way after Thomas gave her a nudge with the tip of his shoe, and I followed him in. "These," he said with a sweeping hand gesture, "were gentleman who I believed might be my grandfather."
I took a deep breath, walked past him, and traced one of the red Xs with my finger. "What are these for?"
He smiled like the Disney's interpretation of the Cheshire Cat. "I'm glad you asked." He grabbed the red marker out of the cabinet, pulled off its lid, and retraced the X with its tip. "This," he said as the marker squeaked diagonally across the photograph, "is one of the men who lied to me. He told me that he was my grandfather, when he knew that was not the truth."
He pointed the marker at me, and I swore it transformed into a pocket knife. I backed away the best I could in the kitchen's cramped confines. "I'm confident that isn't the case with you, Grandpa Jim."
"N-no w-way," I said with a stutter I thought I left in first grade. I di
dn’t, however, feel the pang of guilt that a lie usually activated inside. I was in survival mode, and I would do whatever it took to get out of the shack alive. How else could I protect Claire?
"Glad you're so confident," he said. He recapped the marker -- it once again looked like a marker rather than a murder weapon -- and placed it back in the cabinet. He then withdrew the DNA test kit, opened it, and put on the included pair of latex gloves. He withdrew several oversized swabs. "Open wide." I opened my mouth until I felt my jaw click, and he scraped the inside of my cheeks with one swab at a time. Although my mouth was dry due to my lack of hydration, he appeared satisfied with the sample.
Once he was finished, he inserted the swabs into a padded envelope and instructed me to return to the living area. I willingly obliged, as I wanted to check on Liz.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
As I walked through the doorway and into the living area, I briefly considered trying to lock Thomas in the kitchen. I was certain that, after he received the DNA test results, he'd murder me. My genes wouldn't lie. By the time I'd figure out how to rig the door shut in the busted jamb, though, I was sure he'd catch on, likely resulting in my immediate execution. If I allowed him free reign of the place, however, he'd probably hold off until he received the test results. So instead of carrying out that ill-fated plan, I knelt next to Liz.
She'd barely moved since I last saw her. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," she whispered with a hand over her eyes. Although it was a small victory, I was glad she had the ability to speak. I wouldn't have put it past Thomas to cut out her tongue so he'd never have to hear her protest his insanity.
"Here, let me help you up," I said. Without waiting for a response, I situated my hands beneath her armpits and prepared to tug. But as soon as my fingers brushed the sides of her bony rib cage, she recoiled and let out a whimper that reminded me of a wounded kitten. "Oh, I'm sorry." I pulled my hands away. "Did that hurt?"
Although she didn't respond, I was certain that I had accidentally caused her pain. And I felt certain that her brother was the one who inflicted the rib injuries at the pain's root.
"Leave her be," Thomas said as he returned. "She does this all the time. Expects sympathy, but doesn't deserve it." I wanted more than anything to punch the smirk off the son-of-a-bitch's face. Again, though, the outline of his pistol made me reconsider.
I scooted over to the door jamb and pretended I knew what I was doing. I felt Thomas's glare as I tried to shove the out-of-place splinters of wood back into their natural positions. After a few minutes, watching me labor must've bored him. “I'm gonna run this sample to the Post Office. Be back in a half hour.” He unlocked the front door. Then, just before he exited, he added, “Lizzie, you’d better keep a close eye on Grandpa Jim. Remember what happened last time.” He held up his fist, and I was certain it’s what he'd used, on more than one occasion, to punish her when she didn’t follow his orders.
I continued working on the jamb after he locked the door. I still wasn't quite sure if Liz would tell him if I failed to do so.
I crawled into the kitchen, pulled the door closed, and twisted the lock on the knob. I then gave the door a gentle shove outward, and it didn't budge. Although it wasn't a long-term fix, manually shoving the wood back into place at least allowed the door to stay shut. A more permanent solution would only be possible if I applied some sort of bonding agent. "Liz," I said as I opened the door and walked back into the living area. "Do you know if your brother has any wood glue?"
I expected Liz to still be occupying the same space on the floor from which she'd barely moved. Therefore, I was surprised when she was instead standing and staring out the window.
"Did you hear me?" I asked. She didn't move. I took a few steps closer. "Liz?" Still nothing. I tapped her shoulder, and she jerked her head toward me. I'd never seen eyes as bloodshot as hers, and a bead of sweat ran down her narrow forehead. Her collar was wet with what appeared to be a combination of tears and perspiration.
She stared at me, and her furrowed brow reflected a combination of curiosity and fear. Her fear concerned me because, unlike mine, hers was based completely on terrors she'd seen Thomas create. She knew what he was going to do to both of us. Based on the evidence I'd observed up to that point, I had my guesses. But her look confirmed that Thomas was capable of even more than I'd imagined.
"What's going to happen?" I said. She turned back toward the window. She appeared to be watching the path that led to the car. Watching, I suspected, for her brother's return.
I was failing to get through to her, and I didn't know how to coerce her to speak. So instead of pushing her, I decided I'd take care of the talking.
I sat on the edge of the television stand and began to speak. "I know Thomas said I should forget about my wife and son...that he -- and you -- are my family now." I wondered if she felt the same way. "But this crazy guy with half an ear is after my wife. Well, he's mostly after me. But since he can't find me right now, he'll go after her. I'm sure of it.
"He tracked me down at my house, nearly ran me over with his SUV, and killed my dog. He killed my dog, for God's sake. What kind of madman would do that?" As I rambled on about what my Vietnamese nemesis did, I realized that it was nothing compared to what Thomas had done to his litany of grandfathers. Half-Ear had threatened me. He came after me. He killed my dog. But, as far as I knew, he hadn't killed any people -- let alone more than twenty.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't complain. I know how difficult your life must be."
She kept staring out the window, but I heard sobs well up inside her chest, and she covered her eyes with her hand. "But he's my brother." Her chest heaved as emotion washed over her.
I walked back over and placed my hand on her shoulder. This time she didn't turn toward me. "I didn't want to believe he was capable. I still don't." She ran the fingers of both of her hands through her hair, and she locked them together behind her neck. "When the mounds first began to appear, he told me the septic system needed to be fixed. That the tank was leaking and pushing the dirt up. The stench coming from beneath the mounds made me believe him."
I cringed. Though I didn't notice any odor when I arrived, I wasn't sure how long it'd been since he buried the last one. Perhaps he began enclosing them in plastic bags or some other non-porous material before covering them up. Regardless, I felt sick.
"Sorry for being so graphic," she said.
"It's okay."
She shook her head. "None of it's okay. But when it started, I had no reason not to trust him. After all, he's looked after me ever since he was old enough. With no dad in our lives, and our mom barely around even before some creep murdered her, he was the steadying figure. He was the one person that'd always be there for me." She sighed. "I miss the man I thought he was."
I gently massaged her shoulder. "Did you know he was searching for your grandfather?"
"I did." She bit her lip. "When we were growing up, mom would tell us how brave grandpa was. How he was going to return after he helped defeat the Viet Cong. She never stopped telling us this...up until the day she died. I think she honestly believed that he'd burst through the front door one day, even though the war had ended decades earlier. Even though the Army told our grandmother years earlier that it considered him dead. Even though it never recovered his body.
"Thomas latched onto her far-flung theory. And every time I tried to convince him otherwise, he'd just say, You know he wouldn't abandon our family, Lizzie. Right? I went along with it. I didn't want to crush my brother's hopes. But, as the years rolled on, his view changed. Instead of believing that grandpa was going to come home and embrace our family, Thomas believed grandpa was hiding out somewhere inside the U.S. Instead of looking for us, he abandoned us to start his own family. Just like our father."
Although Thomas's beliefs were a far stretch from reality, they helped me understand why he was so intent on finding his grandfather. "Did he tell you about the men he brought her
e?"
"Each time he brought one in, he convinced himself it was grandpa. He coerced each man to confirm the same. That way Thomas was able to convince himself that the grandpa tricked Thomas into believing he was truly our grandfather." I couldn’t believe I fell for the same tactic. I thought I was protecting myself by going along with his misstatements. "And, after each man failed the DNA test, Thomas punished him for lying."
I could barely believe the madness with which we were dealing. And I couldn’t believe that Thomas hadn't told Liz that he was the creep who killed their mother. "When did you find out the truth about the other men...about what he did to them?" I gazed back and forth at the misshapen humps that littered the clearing.
"One day Thomas called to ask me to stop by, and I could immediately hear the panic in his voice. I raced over and, when I arrived, I found him lying in a pool of blood outside the cabin. His scalp was split open. A few feet away, our latest grandpa lay dead. A bullet wound gurgled blood in the center of his chest. In grandpa's hand was the shovel he'd used to knock Thomas down."
"What did Thomas say happened?"
"He said the man had tried to rob him, but I knew better. Thomas doesn't own anything worth stealing. And once Thomas suggested we bury his body near the other three dirt mounds, I realized that this man wasn't the first grandpa who Thomas killed.
"I think Thomas could tell that I knew. From that day forward, he's referred, in general, to what he'll do to any man who claimed to be our grandfather. And the few times I suggested he consider another approach, he repaid me with one of these." She pointed to the bruise on her cheek.
I stood silently for a few moments, my tongue glued to the desert-dry roof of my mouth. I wasn't the only one who had to escape before Thomas did me in. I couldn't allow Liz to continue to live under his acid reign.
I reached out my arms to embrace her, and she fell loosely into them, her arms outstretched. She couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds, and her pronounced ribcage reminded me of a few of the malnourished deer that Gene butchered. I shook my head to rid myself of thoughts of Gene. I had bigger game to hunt before I could even consider his relationship with Claire.