by Willow Rose
"It's all very strange what's going on around here lately. Makes one wonder, doesn’t it? Did you hear about what happened to the Bishops’ son?"
"Lyle?” Shannon said and glanced at Austin. She didn't want him to hear that they were talking about Lyle.
"Sure. We heard."
Mrs. Westwood shook her head. "Terrible ordeal. I think he killed himself because he knew what happen that night that Benjamin disappeared. He was there, you know? He was in the house that night. I’m beginning to think he might have seen something."
Shannon stared at the woman in front of her. "He was there? Why was he at the Rutherfords’ house?"
"You didn't know? Lyle dated the daughter, Penelope. Come to think of it, that might also be why he killed himself. The girl never gave him the time of day. It’s so sad, though. He was handsome and sweet too."
Shannon hardly blinked. They had been searching for Lyle's connection to the family, and there it was. Of course, Bridget knew this. They should have thought about asking her before.
She reached into her pocket and found the picture she had taken that same morning and showed it to Bridget.
"Do you know who that is?"
"That's the pastor…and the one he's talking to? Well, that's Susan Kelsey, Savannah's mother."
"Savannah…as in the girl that dated Benjamin?"
"Yes, that's the one. I wonder what they were talking about. Looks quite agitated, don’t you think?"
45
The gin burned in his throat, yet he kept drinking it. The bottle was on his lips, and he refused to take it away. He needed the gin; he needed it to get rid of all the thoughts rumbling around inside of him.
Douglas breathed through his nose as he emptied the bottle before putting it down. He then gasped for air and leaned on the back of the old couch in the shack where his brother had let him stay.
Douglas coughed as the burning sensation subsided. It didn't help, he realized. The gin hadn't managed to drown it out, this nagging feeling that tormented him.
Usually, at this time of day, he was able to drink enough to doze off completely, but not today. Was it because the police were crawling all over the place, rummaging in the back?
They had been inside his small space and asked him about the freezer, but Doug had told them he knew nothing about it and then given them the old story about him only living there while waiting to see if his wife wanted to divorce him. Truth was, he had received the divorce papers months ago, but he just refused to sign them. They just lay there on the dresser, staring back at him, mocking him for what he had become.
I am sorry, Ginger. I am so terribly sorry. I just don't know how to stop. I don't know how to go back.
He had slapped her back in New York, where they had shared a beautiful old loft. Both of them were artists. She was a writer, and he was a painter. This meant they were both home all day, each working on their projects. But she was the one with success, not Douglas. He couldn't sell a painting even if his life depended on it, and sometimes it felt like it did.
Meanwhile, she had gotten a deal with a big publishing house, and her books were printed in sixteen countries around the world. It was her money that paid for the loft and everything else in their life. And he didn't even have a penny to his name. It was old-fashioned to be thinking that way, but maybe he was just that. He didn't like it one bit that he couldn’t even contribute.
So, as the rejection letters kept coming from exhibitions and galleries, he soon took to drinking and didn't look back. He had hardly painted anything for almost a year now. Not since she threw him out and told him not to come back. How could he? She was his muse. There was no reason for him to paint anymore. Not without her in his life.
Douglas finally felt the buzz as the alcohol took over and the world spun around him. He couldn't stop thinking about that night three weeks ago and had to clutch onto the armrest to keep his hands from shaking. He sat like that for a few minutes, wondering if he should just go back there and tell them the truth, tell them what had happened. He couldn't stand the guilt he was feeling. It didn't matter if he was sent to jail for what he had done. Nothing mattered anymore.
Douglas pushed himself to an upright position when he realized he was in no condition to be moving around. He was so dizzy that he had to sit back down right away in order not to fall.
Douglas chuckled, but soon it turned to sobbing at how pathetic he had become. Seconds later, he was sound asleep on the flower-patterned couch. When he woke up again, the police had finished and left. It was quiet in his small shack again.
Except for the sound of footsteps approaching, walking slowly across the wooden planks.
46
"What happened over there?"
Shannon had served me some hot chocolate, and I was warming my fingers on the sides of the cup. I had been gone all afternoon and darkness had settled outside. My nose was so cold I could hardly feel it after spending hours at the neighboring house, while the sheriff and his team searched the shack.
"They found what they believe is the murder weapon," I said victoriously. Now, there was no longer any talk about suicide or Benjamin slipping and hurting his head on a rock in the creek. Now they were certain they were talking murder.
"It was a fire poker. It still had blood on it. Doesn't take a genius to see that it was what was used to hit Benjamin on the back of his head before he ended up in the freezer and then later in the creek."
Shannon wrinkled her nose. "Creepy."
I sipped my cup and felt the liquid as it spread warmth throughout my body, and I slowly came back to myself. I wasn't used to this kind of cold. Having lived all my life in Florida, this was very different, and not quite as romantic as I wanted it to be.
"But that's good news, right?" Shannon said and put an extra marshmallow in my cup with a smile. She knew how much I loved those. "That they found the weapon?"
"That is very good news. Now, they can check the poker for any fingerprints or DNA."
"So, maybe they'll catch the killer, then?" Shannon asked and put a dish in the dishwasher. The counter was smeared with leftover chocolate and cookie crumbs, and I realized I had missed out on quite the party. Now, the kids were watching a movie in the living room with the fireplace going.
"But someone cleaned the freezer, you say?" she asked and wiped the counter for crumbs.
"Yes, it was completely cleansed, not a drop of blood to be found inside of it. Luckily, I had the picture."
"That must mean that whoever is behind this must have known that you were in the shack."
"That's what I was thinking too. There was the uncle, who we met outside when we came out. He seemed a little off. I hope they bring him in for questioning."
Shannon smiled and closed the dishwasher. She reached over and grabbed my hand in hers. She looked me in the eyes with a deep sigh.
"How about we let go of all this for tonight? Listen to that. The kids are laughing at the movie. How about we join them and forget the world outside for a few hours, huh? Just be a family for once. The children miss us; they miss being with us, and that was kind of the idea with this vacation. For all of us to spend time together."
I exhaled, exhausted, then finished my hot chocolate. "That is the best idea I have heard all week."
We walked to the kids who were watching The Incredibles 2, then plunged down onto the couch together. Abigail crawled into my lap, and a few minutes later, I was snoring lightly with my daughter on top of me, Elastigirl doing her thing on the screen, while I was far away in the land of my dreams.
We had made it about halfway through the movie when I was awakened by a loud scream.
"What was that?" I asked, shooting upright with a confused grunt, sleepiness still lingering in my eyes. At first, I believed it was part of my dream, but as my eyes met Shannon's and I saw the concern in them, I knew it wasn't.
"It came from the neighbors," she said.
47
He made it outside. His perpetrator was
close behind him, breathing down his neck. Douglas felt like it was all still a dream. It had such a dreamlike feel to it; the footsteps approaching inside the shack, the gun he had seen in the hand of the person coming for him. The sight had sobered him up immediately, yet the alcohol in his blood had still made it hard for him to see straight and to run. But he had tried anyway. Realizing that this person wanted to kill him, he had jumped out the window, through the glass, and cut himself on the arm and leg, but landed softly in the snow outside before rolling down the hill toward the creek. The perpetrator had been in the light of the window as he looked back up, then run for the door. Meanwhile, he had gotten back on his feet, but as he stood up, he slipped on the wet rocks and hurt his jaw. Now as he was running in the ice-cold water, he tasted blood in his mouth.
It had gotten dark out, which was to his advantage, but his perpetrator had a flashlight, and he could see its beam as it searched for him in between the tall trees and along the creek. The water was crackling loudly beneath him, and Douglas knew it well enough to know that if he stayed close to the banks, the water was shallow, and he could avoid falling in.
Douglas panted as he jumped from rock to rock in the darkness, hoping and praying he wouldn't fall. Behind him, he could hear his follower as they got closer still. Douglas cursed himself for drinking so much that it was hard for him to run. The many years of drinking had taken its toll on his body. He used to be in such good shape, but that was all gone.
Come on, Doug. You can make it. You were the fastest track runner in your senior year.
The beam from the flashlight fell on his shoulder, and Doug gasped. Then a shot was fired, and it echoed through the trees. Heart pounding in his throat, Doug ducked down, and the bullet whistled past him. He landed on all fours in the water, and his pants got soaked.
He stayed down for a few seconds, while his heart pounded against his ribcage. He gasped to breathe properly and rose to his feet. He ran forward, jumping two more rocks ahead before he slipped once again on a rock and landed face-first in the water, hitting his shin on the rock. Douglas shrieked in pain and felt his leg. Blood was gushing out from it. He thought he could feel the bone where there used to be skin. He had split his shin once before when jumping in a pool in Florida and hitting it on the edge. It took eight stitches done by the local mayor who was also a doctor.
Oh, dear God, I’ll probably need to get to a hospital and have this stitched.
Douglas heard steps coming up behind him and a rustle between the bushes and realized his perpetrator was gaining on him. Doug stood to his feet but couldn't put any weight on his leg. He tried to jump forward using just one leg as he heard the person closing in and the gun being cocked again right behind his head.
Douglas fell forward and landed with both his hands on the rocks, covered in water, crying.
"Please. You don't have to do this."
"Oh, yes, Douglas, I do."
"Why? Why are you doing this to me?"
"You know why," the voice said, hissing. "You know perfectly well why I am doing this, you pathetic excuse for a human being."
"I didn't do anything," he said, sobbing. "I didn't tell. I promise; I didn't tell anyone. When the police questioned me, I told them I hadn't seen anything that night. I said I was drunk on my couch and that I didn't know anything. That's all. I promise; I didn't tell."
"But you told someone else," the voice said. "Didn't you? If you think it over really carefully, I’m sure you’ll know what I’m talking about."
Douglas felt confused. He didn't remember saying anything, ever, but as he lay there in the water, feeling pathetic and soaked, a gun to his head, he suddenly remembered.
"The woman," he said. "At the bar. She came to me, and she…we talked…and…”
"And you were so drunk that you couldn't stop talking. Even though you knew you had to keep quiet, that everything depended on you keeping your big fat mouth shut. But that woman was a very well-known reporter. And you just handed her the story on a silver platter. That's how she came up with the idea. By talking to you, you fool. You're the one who led her to us. You’re the reason it all went wrong."
Douglas could hardly breathe. It was true. He hadn't remembered until now because he had been so wasted, but yes, he now remembered vaguely talking about that night with some woman at the Legends Sports Grill downtown. He had told her about what had happened, hadn't he? He had told her everything—every freaking ugly detail.
"Oh, dear God," he mumbled.
"That's right, Douglas. You better pray that God will have mercy on your ugly sinful soul. ‘Cause the way I see it, you're going straight to hell for what you've done."
"I am so sorry. I am so sorry…" Douglas cried and pleaded, but he knew it was in vain. Suddenly, he regretted everything in his life. He regretted having ever taken a drink; he regretted having left Ginger and New York and feeling sorry for himself for not being able to make a living. At least he had a woman who loved him, at least she could pay for him to follow his passion. What had been so bad about that? And why hadn't he stopped drinking when she asked—no pleaded with him to? Why had he been such a fool all his life? Why had he been such a coward?
"I'm…"
"It's too late for sorry," the voice said, and Douglas felt the gun press against his hair in the back.
Douglas closed his eyes when he felt the rippling water push his hand, and he slipped and slid to the side. The water was pulling at him forcefully, and he swallowed, waiting for his death when a thought struck him like lightning from a clear blue sky.
Why not give it a try? What can you possibly have to lose?
He then grabbed a rock with both hands and used it to push himself into the freezing water, just as the gun went off behind him.
48
I grabbed my coat and boots again, and Shannon gave me a flashlight, so I could find my way as I walked outside. As soon as I was on the porch, I felt the biting cold on my cheeks, and suddenly I longed terribly for those nights in Florida where the warmth felt like a blanket around you, and you could hear the cicadas everywhere you went.
I didn't need the flashlight much, though, since the area in front of the neighbor’s house was lit up by red and blue blinking lights from the many police cruisers parked in the driveway.
"What’s going on?" I mumbled to myself, then rushed toward the house, walking in the thick snow. As I approached it, I soon paused. The door was open, and now I saw two deputies as they came out. Between them, they were holding someone, dragging her kicking and screaming out on the porch. Behind her, someone else screamed too, and my heart sank.
"NO! she's my daughter. You can't take my daughter away from me!"
Mrs. Rutherford tried to yank one of the deputy’s shoulders, but Sheriff Franklin pulled her back. As her daughter was dragged away, Mrs. Rutherford fell to her knees on the porch, hiding her face between her hands.
"Please."
Sheriff Franklin came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. I could see the pastor and Charles Junior behind them, a startled and shocked look on their faces while Penny was being put in the cruiser by the two deputies.
"I am sorry," Sheriff Franklin said, "that it has come to this, but as I said, her fingerprints were on the fire poker. Just her fingerprints and no one else's."
The blazing wind carried his words toward me, and as I heard them, my heart stopped. I couldn't believe it. Penny had killed her brother? From inside the cruiser, I could hear her violent screams as the cruiser took off, driving into the darkness, sirens blaring, blinking lights turning the night a gloomy blue. Sheriff Franklin put on his hat and followed them in his cruiser, leaving the grieving family on the porch.
I turned to look at Mrs. Rutherford, still on her knees on the wooden planks as she sobbed and pleaded for her daughter, for them to have mercy on her when the pastor spotted me standing beside the house.
"You!" he almost screamed. He rushed toward me, down the stairs so fast I barely managed to move
away. He was soon in my face, his hands on my throat, pressing me backward till I hit a tree trunk and was pushed forcefully up against it.
"It's all your fault!"
I tried to speak, to defend myself, but couldn't get anything but gurgling sounds out of my throat. I gasped to breathe while he held me tight, pressing harder and harder till I thought I saw stars.
“They took my daughter because of you, you fool."
"Dad!"
The sound of his son's voice from the porch made the pastor let go of me, and I slid down onto the snow, coughing and gasping for air. The pastor hovered above me, panting and wheezing in anger. He kicked me in the stomach, then bent over.
"Don't you ever show your face on my property again, you hear me? You and your little offspring better stay far away from my side of the property line, or I can't answer for what might happen to them."
I was still trying to catch my breath as he turned around and walked away. I saw him grab his wife by the arm and escort her inside, then slam the door behind him.
49
The door to her cell suddenly opened, and Savannah sat up. She had been sleeping, she realized and blinked her eyes in the darkness when someone appeared in the door.
"Come with me," the deputy said.
Savannah stood to her feet, feeling slightly confused. She passed a window in the sheriff's office and realized it was late. Surely, they hadn't woken her up to interrogate her again, had they? Would they be that cruel?
Savannah followed the deputy down the hallway, still yawning and trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes when she heard a scream. With a small gasp, she looked up. In through the door she was about to walk out of, came Penny. She was screaming and kicking like a mad person as two deputies almost carried her through the door.
When she passed Savannah, their eyes met, and Penny's were flaming in anger. The fire in them made Savannah pull to the side, pressing her back up against the wall.