by C Thomas Cox
"Then why were you so quick to send me away to Oak Ridge?"
She squeezed my hand. "For your own safety...and for mine."
"But I told you I didn't hurt Scout."
"I wanted to believe you, honey. I really did."
"Then why didn't you?"
She stared at the floor for what felt like several minutes. Then she sucked in a deep breath. "There's something I need to tell you."
"What?" I asked, pleading with my eyes. "What is it?"
"A boy from a few streets over was riding his bike past our house while it happened. While you..." She paused and a tear ran down her cheek. She looked away. "While you beat Scout to death with the stick."
I stopped breathing, and every muscle in my body contracted. Although I didn't recall a boy riding by, I didn't doubt it. "Wait," I said, trying to regain control of the situation. "Did the boy say anything about a silver Honda Pilot? He must've seen it."
She looked me in the eyes. "No. I'm sorry, Jimmy, but there was no Pilot."
I was devastated. I wanted to close my eyes...to hide from the world that was shattering around me. But I couldn't. I knew that if I closed my eyes I'd again see the face of Half-Ear. The face of a man who I was starting to believe my imagination may have concocted only to haunt me.
I must've looked lost as I laid my head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. "I'm sure it's a lot to take in. And I'm sure your time with Thomas and Elizabeth Cariot made your situation worse." She leaned forward and laid her head on my chest. "Don't worry, though. There's a great VA hospital in Philly that already said they'd love to see you. They deal with PTSD patients all the time." She trembled. "I should've never let the cops convince me that Oak Ridge was your best option."
She turned her head toward me, and I gazed into the eyes that had shaped my past and would still be my future. I grinned in gratitude, as I appreciated all that Claire had done -- and was doing -- to save me from the wounds that had never fully healed. I also cried in exasperation as I realized that my memories, rather than a jerk at the baseball game, were my real tormentor.
If Half-Ear isn’t real, I thought, how can I know for certain which of my recent experiences represented reality? I couldn’t move forward without understanding how far gone I truly was. I needed to talk to the one person who could verify everything I'd been through. I was certain Claire would disagree.
"I need to see Liz," I said.
"Honey, you don't have to listen to her anymore. I know she forced you to do things you'd never do on your own."
I furrowed by brow. "Like what?"
"She obviously forced you to run the cop car into a pond. And pretending to know a dead guy isn't exactly your character."
"But I wanted to do those things."
"I'm sorry to tell you this." She kissed my forehead. "But Elizabeth brainwashed you. She convinced you that what you were doing was right...that it was best for you. In reality, though, she just appeased you until she decided the time was right to demand a ransom for your return. Elizabeth and her brother -- who, by the way, the cops are still searching for -- would then take the money and run."
"Did Elizabeth confess those things?"
"No," she said. "But Sergeant Woelper said that, based on the circumstances, it's obvious. Why else would an underpaid mental health worker kidnap a stranger?"
I wanted to tell her the truth -- that Thomas was a deranged serial killer who wanted to make sure his grandfather was dead. But there's no way she'd believe me. She'd think I was again hallucinating. I was trapped...or so I thought.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Claire's ringtone -- a series of notes from the Hallelujah chorus -- startled me. "It's Sergeant Woelper," she said after glancing at her phone. She tapped on the screen, pressed it to her ear, and walked to the far corner of the room. I tried to listen, but I wasn't able to make out her whispers. Within a minute, she returned, a pained expression on her face.
"What is it?" I asked.
"As soon as you're up to it, I need to take you down to the precinct. Seems the police need you to help them get to the truth of a far-flung tale that Elizabeth's spinning."
"I'm good," I said, and I forced myself into a sitting position. I couldn't help but moan, however, as my ribcage felt as though a knife -- perhaps a set of knives -- was piercing its side. My head began to throb, too.
"Lay back down, Jimmy. The Sergeant said we can wait 'til you're up to it."
"I said I'm fine."
Claire and I went back and forth like that for probably twenty minutes before I was able to convince her that I felt well enough to ride with her to the police station.
***
Once a nurse wheeled me out of the hospital and helped me into Claire's car -- after it took the hospital a frustrating two hours to complete my discharge paperwork -- Claire began grilling me. "Where did Thomas take you after he took you from Oak Ridge?"
"To a shack in the woods."
"Was Liz with him?"
"No."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No."
"Did Liz hurt you?"
"No."
She continued with a litany of questions until we reached the station, but none of the questions was particularly probing. And I kept my answers as brief as possible -- not in an effort to conceal the truth, but rather to prevent Claire from thinking that, not only was I going off the deep end, but I was permanently swimming in its turbulent waters.
***
The Dairy Police Station's brick exterior was unremarkable, and its diminutive size reminded me of something out of Mayberry. It was, however, large enough to hold Dairy's new public threat number one -- ninety-pound Elizabeth Cariot.
After we parked, Claire shot Sergeant Woelper a quick text letting him know we arrived. He met us just outside the front door. "Glad to see you up and about," he said while looking me over. "As I told Claire earlier, Ms. Cariot has been spewin' nonsense about a house fire, grandfathers buried in the woods, and a man with half an ear. I can't pull the truth out of her, and I'm hoping you can help."
"I think so," I said, and we followed him inside. We passed through a lobby -- if you can call it that -- consisting of two folding chairs and a television set that couldn't have been much newer than Thomas's. After a short journey down a narrow corridor, we made a left into what the Sergeant referred to as the interrogation room. The faux-wood paneling and Berber carpet reminded me more of a basement than a place where Woelper questioned potential criminals.
He seated Claire and I in a leather loveseat that was torn in multiple places, and he said he'd be right back. "You sure you're up to this?" Claire asked me as soon as Woelper left the room.
"I'm fine," I said. I was sure that my occasional grimaces didn't help my case, but she let it go. And within minutes, Woelper returned with Liz, her hands hanging in front of her, and her wrists handcuffed to one another.
"Oh, Liz," I blurted without thinking.
"It's okay," she said. "I'm okay."
"I can't believe..." I started, but I quieted as soon as Woelper held up his hand. Claire wrapped her arm around mine.
Woelper seated Liz in a chair across the room from us, and he sat beside her. Another uniformed officer stood in the doorway. "We need to get the stories straight," Woelper said. "We can't convict this woman if we don't know what really happened."
"Appreciate it, sir," Liz mumbled.
"Let's start back at Oak Ridge," he said. "How was Ms. Cariot involved in your abduction, Jim?"
I shook my head. "She wasn't. I didn't even know Liz existed until after Thomas had taken me captive."
"Was she in his home when he first brought you there?"
"Nope. She came later."
"So you're saying that she visited you while you were a prisoner?"
"Not at all. Thomas forced her to come...and to bring him food."
"But you're saying that she did bring food to the place where you were locked up? And she didn't tell anyone tha
t Thomas had taken you hostage?"
"Listen," I said. "The only thing that Liz...I mean Ms. Cariot...did wrong was not standing up to her brother. But you should've met him, Sergeant. He would've killed her if she didn't obey. Look at her. Look at how he nearly starved her to death." I pointed to her frail body, and she looked away. I didn't want to bring attention to her unfortunate state, but I needed to do so to prove my point. I took a deep breath. "If anyone was brainwashed, it was Liz...by Thomas. She was scared to death that he'd take her life. And she was petrified that, if anything ever happened to him, she'd be alone in the world.
"Sir...she doesn't have any family or friends. Can you imagine living life without any anyone in your life?"
"I'm quite sure that'd be tough," he said.
I nodded, and I noticed Claire looking at me quizzically. "Are you saying you believe him?" Claire asked Woelper as she nodded toward me. "I know he's telling us what he remembers, but what if the events he remembers aren't reality?" My eyes drilled into hers like lasers. "I'm sorry, honey. I don't mean you any disrespect. It's just that what you've seen hasn't always lined up with the truth." The image of Scout's bloodied body returned to my mind, and I nodded.
She was right, of course. How could I say for certain that my recollection was accurate? Perhaps I had dreamt up most of the story.
"Claire," Woelper said with the compassion of a grown son speaking to his elderly mother. "I wouldn't dismiss his story so easily. So far, Jim's story lines up with everything...with everything that Liz has told me."
Claire rested her chin against her chest. "It's okay, gorgeous." I said. "It's all so tough to believe."
"If you think that's tough," Woelper said, "you should hear the rest of the story."
I looked toward Liz, expecting her to speak up. Instead, Woelper turned back to me. "Tell me about Thomas's kitchen, as well as about the exterior of his property."
I spent the next twenty minutes describing the pictures on the kitchen walls and the bodies buried underground. I explained how Thomas possessed surveillance video of his victims, and that he decorated his home with his murdered mother's décor of choice. I even told him how Thomas would've killed me if it wasn't for the fire that Liz ignited.
By the time I was through, tears streaked down the faces of the two woman who I loved the most -- one as a wife, and the other as a daughter. Liz mouthed, "Thank you," and Claire said, "I'm so sorry."
Woelper, on the other hand, scratched his chin. He scratched his head. He tugged at his mustache. He even tugged at his hear...I wondered whether Carol Burnett was some distant relation. "Ms. Cariot," he said. "I must admit that Jim's story matches yours almost identically. So much so that I almost want to release you."
"Almost?" I asked.
"Yep, almost. I can't let her go without taking care of a couple loose ends."
"What's left?" asked Claire. "It's clear Liz has done no wrong."
"That's not entirely true," he said. "If we find those buried bodies outside of Thomas's burnt up shack, it'll mean two things. One, that both she and Jim are telling the truth. Two that, at the least, she aided a murderer. That's a felony in this state."
"Come on, Sergeant." I said. "She's already been through so much!"
"I know," he said with a grin. "That's why I'm sure we can negotiate a plea with the State's Attorney that'll allow her to remain on house arrest for six months and, worst case, pay a fine. As long as she cooperates, I'm sure she'll face no prison time." He glanced at Liz. "What do you think?"
For the first time since I saw her in handcuffs, Liz smiled. "Thanks, Sergeant."
"Great...I'll run it by the Attorney's office. All you need to do is direct us to Thomas's shack and show us where he buried the bodies."
Chapter Sixty-Six
"I can take you to Thomas's place," I said. I wasn't going to let Liz go to that place...to the place that I was sure would perpetually dominate her nightmares...without a fight. I didn't want her to suffer through the memories that I was sure Thomas's shack would rekindle.
"I appreciate the offer, Jim. I really do. But Liz is the one who needs to identify the place as Thomas's. You can't confirm that he actually resided at that property for more than the time you spent with him."
"But it's going to be so rough on her," I pleaded.
Liz stood up and took a step toward me. She glanced back at Sergeant Woelper to make sure he wasn't going to stop her. He didn't, so she walked over to me. She leaned forward and took my hand in hers. "I can handle this," she said. "We've both suffered long enough, and our suffering's almost over." She kissed the top of my head, and then returned to her chair.
"Oh, and one more thing," Woelper said. "Once we check in with the State's Attorney, I'm sure Ms. Cariot will be on probation until the plea deal's finalized." She looked at Claire and me. "Since -- considering all she's suffered through -- she might not be quite ready to live alone again, do you two have any idea as to where she can stay?" He winked.
"Of course," Claire said. "It'd be great to have some more estrogen in the house to help me offset this old grump." She squeezed me close.
"Ouch!" I screamed as her embrace shoved the knives in deeper.
"Oh, sorry." She let go and Liz laughed.
***
Woelper locked Liz back in her holding cell while he called the State's Attorney. Ten minutes later, he returned with her, uncuffed and ready to go. "You'll need to report to your probation officer tomorrow morning," he said, handing her a piece of paper on which he scribbled the officer's name and address.
"Thank you," Liz said.
The three of us climbed into the car, and Claire took off. For the first time, I was willing to admit that I was wrong. That my PTSD thrust Half-Ear into my life, and that Half-Ear was no more than a memory fragment that lodged itself inside my overactive brain.
Before we pulled away, I noticed a slight rustle behind one of the bushes lining the perimeter of the parking lot. I didn't say anything, though. I didn't want my paranoia to spook Claire. However, as Claire turned onto the main road, I swore I saw the eyes of a man through the bush's leafy green foliage.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
When we arrived home, Liz offered to help Claire cook dinner while I rested in the living room. Now that we were past the day's excitement, my cracked ribs demanded my attention. "Do you want your pain pills?" Claire asked after I moaned for the fifth time.
I knew about the potential addictive quality of narcotics, but I was confident Claire would regulate my dosage. “Maybe just one."
She brought in the pill, a glass of water, and a chocolate chip cookie. She said I should have some food on my stomach before taking the drug, and I agreed. I ate the cookie -- she makes the best chocolate chips -- and swallowed the pill. Within minutes I felt its effects.
Not only did the medication drop the rib pain from an eight to a four on a ten-point pain scale, it also temporarily loosened my grip on reality. It didn’t knock me out. Rather, it seemed to blur my view of the world. And, in my dazed state, the mental anguish that had pestered me ever since the baseball game floated away.
The blur somehow obscured my circumstances from my view. I was no longer a car accident victim. I had no longer been on the run from the police, trying to protect my wife. I felt as though I could finally see clearly.
Instead of worrying that Half-Ear could at any point be watching me through the window, I realized that any such image would be seen by my mind's eye alone. Half-Ear wasn't real. He was merely a representation of my time in Vietnam.
He was also a reminder of my long-forgotten sin. A reminder that I once, in an unrighteous rage, took the life of an innocent Vietnamese farmer…the only punishment that my sin would ever elicit.
As I dwelt upon my indiscretion, I was forced to confront an uncomfortable reality. While I wanted my mind to heal fully through inpatient treatment -- and to rekindle the love the Claire and I once shared -- I could only do so by facing up to my failure. I could no
longer share a life with Claire without confessing to her my weakest moment. Our union could never be completely whole without telling her that I'd killed a man and his son.
Unwilling to wait any longer, I called Claire -- and Liz -- into the room. "There's something I need to tell you," I said to Claire. I knew that if I waited until the narcotic wore off, I'd likely lose the nerve to confess all that I'd done. Therefore, I proceeded to spill everything. Liz watched from a distance as Claire's face reflected the anguish that my tale thrust upon her.
"I'm so sorry...and I'm so sorry I didn't tell you earlier," I concluded. "Honestly, even if I remembered years ago, I doubt I would've told you."
Claire bowed her head and folded her hands in her lap as if in prayer. I'd never known a woman who better reflected the Christian values to which she clung. A murderous husband had no place in her life.
"No sin is unforgivable," she whispered. Moisture pooled in the corners of my eyes. "You're no longer your old self. You're a new man. You'd never treat life like that again."
"You're right," I said.
"Just hearing about the lengths to which you went to keep me safe in these last few days shows me all I need to know."
She stood up from the sofa, knelt next to the recliner in which I sat, and rested her head on my lap. I ran my fingers through her silver locks. "I love you, Claire. Forever."
"And always," she said.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
The next thirteen days cruised by without incident. Claire and Liz became fast friends -- Claire taught Liz some of her best cookie recipes, and Liz weeded the garden and took over my lawn mowing duties.
Sergeant Woelper proved true to his word. Liz's plea deal kept her out of prison, and she was able to escort several cops to Thomas's shack without shedding more than a handful of tears.
Liz quit her job at the diner, and Claire connected her with a real estate agent friend of ours. Liz decided that leaving her old life behind -- particularly selling the condominium that Thomas visited all too frequently -- was the only way she could move past the trauma that rained down upon her for most of her life. She gladly took Claire and me up on our offer to let her stay at our house while she looked for a new job, and she met with a counselor daily to help her work through her pain.