by Tyler Wolfe
I stopped by the ditch, feeling a brief wave of dizziness rush over me. A few droplets of rain fell down on me from the arching trees. This is where it happened, I thought as I looked around. But to my complete relief, I saw no trace of anything having happened there at all.
The ditch itself was half full of collected rainwater. I bent over to examine it, propping my hands on my knees, pretending to catch my breath. Not only could I not see any drag marks—the bush I had shoved the body under was almost submerged. It sat as a slow current tugged at its leaves and bits of branches. This thing must drain to somewhere, I thought. Any evidence—dropped items, blood, whatever—was now gone and on its way to somewhere else. Good.
Finally, feeling a new sense of relief, my heart lightened and my anxiety dissipated. I straightened, drawing my attention away from the ditch. There’s nothing to find here. No evidence in my house either. I could wash the truck bed with something strong, but I don’t think the kid’s bare skin ever touched it.
Thank God. It’s over. It’s all—
At that moment, I managed to look through the ragged screen of palmettos at the little bungalow, and noticed someone standing at the window I had seen that night, watching me through the blinds. I got a brief impression of a blunt, balding head like a thumb, round shoulders and a ratty wife-beater. Then I looked away quickly, pretending that I hadn’t seen him watching me.
Who is that? Is he just bored or curious, or is he looking at something else? I glanced back briefly as I caught my breath.
He kept staring. My heart skipped a beat, and I suddenly wondered if I was being watched by this goon the whole time since I stopped. Maybe he had a habit of staring out his windows. Maybe he had even been doing that the night I had been attacked. Dammit, what the hell is he doing and why can’t he mind his own business?
He didn’t move. He was like a statue with his eyes fixed on me. I could feel his gaze boring into me, like a laser burning its way into my skin.
Fucking weirdo. I made a business of shaking my legs out as if dealing with a cramp. Just then movement caught my attention; I looked from the corner of my eye back at the house and I saw the window blinds close, as if the big, creepy mouth-breather inside was finished looking.
Thank God for small favors, but how much did he see? Does he suspect something? Does he know something? The guilt was back, and with it, that burning black fear, gnawing at my guts. Play it off now, or you’re done for.
I took a deep breath, and started jogging again, heading back as if nothing had happened. As I passed by the front of the bungalow, its front blinds opened again, and I ground my back teeth together. What the hell is this nosy bastard doing. Damn it, why is he taking such an interest in me?
“I should not have gone back,” I aggressively whispered at myself as I jogged on. My stride was unsteady at first, but my faked calm got me through until I was a few houses away from my street and it evened out. “Dammit, why did I go back?”
As soon as I was out of view of the bungalow, I increased my speed, anxiously ready to get back home. “It’s over. Stop being stupid,” I told myself as I jogged quickly back to the house. My low voice had hard edges, like I was lecturing a small, stupid kid. “Don’t tempt fate, even if they’re selling houses for a dollar apiece. Don’t ever go there again.”
Pretty much all day I was back to being distracted at work, and everyone noticed. The secretary bought me a coffee with a worried smile, but told me I was looking better. I was nice to her and sipped gratefully even though my stomach was churning again. As for Bob...I kept catching him staring at me through the open door of his office. He looked worried, but I ignored him and his bad manners, and struggled on to get the day’s paperwork done.
That night, the nightmares came back. I was out in the boat again, rowing and rowing endlessly, my arms burning and aching, struggling to get to the center of the lake. I could hear police sirens in the distance, drawing quickly nearer. This time, as I tried to shove the bundled body over the side, a spotlight suddenly shone on me from shore, revealing me just as the body made a huge, attention-getting splash in the water.
I woke up in a cold sweat and clung to Zoe like a kid for a while. She mumbled in her sleep and threw an arm over me loosely, and I shivered myself back to sleep in her unconscious embrace.
The next morning dawned like nothing had happened, but I knew better. My bruises and scrapes were all pretty much gone, my pulled muscle was no longer bothering me, and still no news of a missing teenager anywhere in my part of Florida. But I just couldn’t shake my guilty gut feeling.
I got up and went outside in my jogging clothes but I didn’t run—to the lake, or anywhere else. Instead, I found myself feverishly scrubbing down the bed and gate of my truck, looking up nervously every minute or two to see if anyone else was watching me. The fear was back in full as if it had never left.
CHAPTER 8
The Letter
It took me a few more uneventful days before I could calm down and go back to my routine. Zoe noticed me staring at the lake again and asked if I was having more nightmares. I nodded distractedly, but didn’t bring up their subject. I let her think that they were about the boat crash, and the fire.
Instead, they were about prison.
I had spent my school days feeling hellishly confined and alone. My ability to come, go, eat, sleep and even play were all things decided by other people. My personal safety was constantly compromised there too: with kids punished even for defending themselves, bullies ruled the school.
The only difference in the prison dreams were the bars, and the fact that the bullies wore orange jumpsuits. That, and there was literally nobody else normal and decent anywhere; just a bunch of horrifying thugs eager to beat me down...and me, with nowhere and no way to run anymore.
The nightmares only firmed my resolve to make sure I never saw even a single day inside. Fortunately, I was having some luck thus far. I might not be able to relax quite yet, but I had hope now that things weren’t going to end up so fucked up as what happened when I closed my eyes.
My fear finally left me alone after a few days, and by the time I neared the four-week anniversary of that night, I was almost completely recovered. My memories were starting to blur, and the shame seemed to be sinking beneath the surface again, leaving barely a ripple behind.
Maybe that was terrible of me, to let myself forget, but I was exhausted from carrying it all—and the more tired and overwrought I got, the more likely I was to let something slip. And that wasn’t going to help anyone, so I forced myself not to think about what happened that night, until it started to lose its grip on me.
When I was finally able to wake up in the morning and think about the woman sleeping beside me instead of the corpse I had dumped in the lake, it was a relief. Everything had become almost as if it had never happened. I had to focus hard to remember what was said, how the kid had attacked me, and how I rightfully defended myself. But I didn’t want to, anymore.
What’s the use of walking around ashamed when it was an accident, anyway? I was only trying to protect myself. I was scared and temporarily crazed from the stress of being attacked. I’m not a bad person. It was a freak accident that happened and was at least as much a fault of that stupid kid as it was mine. It doesn’t change who I am. It doesn’t.
I’m a good person.
I felt good that day. I got ahead of myself at work, had a nice lunch of leftover pub chicken, and beat my personal best on the treadmill at the gym again. By the time I parked in our garage and ambled out the back door to check the mail late that afternoon, I was even whistling.
Mail usually came around 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Phyllis, the sweet 85-year-old neighbor next door, would make her rounds at 3:30. She’d pick up the mail from the landlord’s box at the front end of the property, sort it, and then drop it off at everyone’s house. It helped avoid mix-ups, and her insistence on taking in packages helped thwart neighborhood parcel pirates.
I f
ound our stack of mail sitting on the porch stairs, just like any other day. A letter from my aunt, a magazine renewal, a letter for Zoe, some bills, a few pieces of junk mail from the health food store Zoe and I had visited a month ago. But, at the bottom, something else: something that didn’t belong.
It was a small, plain white envelope, slightly rumpled and smudged, as if it had sat at the bottom of a cluttered drawer for years. It was completely bare except for the words “Blue Truck” quickly scribbled on it in smeary blue ink. My brows drew together as I stared at it. What is this?
Hoping that it was nothing, I went back into the house and set the other pieces of mail on the kitchen table. Still standing over the table, I held the envelope with the handwritten scribble on it, staring down at it. Something from a neighbor, maybe. Someone near? My stomach was churning again for the first time in days.
Calm down. It’s probably nothing.
But my gut was telling me otherwise, and that was making me very, very nervous.
I flipped the envelope over only to find the back flap was folded into it and not sealed. Definitely something from the neighborhood. They probably just stuffed the envelope and shoved it into the box. I turned the envelope back over, reading the two words again. “Blue Truck” in terrible handwriting. It was the only thing written. I held the envelope up to the light from the breakfast nook window and saw two rectangular outlines inside. Folded papers—nothing else.
Hmm. It puzzled me. I had the only blue truck in the neighborhood, but I didn’t know anyone who identified me solely by what I drove. I knew I hadn’t parked it illegally anywhere overnight; nor had I been in any fender-benders. So why in the hell was some stranger writing to me bringing up my truck?
I pulled the back flap out of the envelope. Inside was what looked to be a folded piece of notebook paper tucked in next to a black and white printout. I quickly pulled the papers out, holding the empty envelope behind them. Please don’t let this be anything crazy. I just want to go back to my normal life and stay there.
But, if there was one thing I had learned in the last month, it was that no matter how hard you tried to live your life peacefully, there was always somebody ready to butt into your corner and bring trouble with him.
I unfolded the notebook paper and saw the same blue handwriting scratched out in big letters. My eyes widened and my heart started to pound so hard that I couldn’t breathe. My gaze traced the shape of each letter, trying to piece them together in some way that didn’t translate to what that line of text said.
“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID”
All I could do was stand there, paralyzed with shock from the words I had just read. Nightmare, I tried to tell myself. I’m having another nightmare.
I looked down at the letter again. That stark sentence had not changed. I could read it clearly. I looked a long time out the window at the lake which stayed undisturbed and murky, the tea-colored water shadowed today by a thick layer of clouds. Then I looked back again—and started to shake all over.
“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID”
The second folded piece of paper was a grainy printout of a photograph, showing my truck passing by. I couldn’t entirely tell from where it had been taken, but it was definitely my truck...
Suddenly I had to brace myself on the table as the floor lurched under me. My legs wobbled as the most paralyzing thought entered my mind. This is real. Someone knows.
Multiple emotions mixed inside me, freezing me with fear, poisoning me with despair and outrage. No! No, God damn it, this can’t be happening, pleeease, I was so careful!
My throat closed; my eyes started stinging, and my nose ran. I staggered to the kitchen sink and retched, but nothing came up. Instead, I just leaned on the heavy porcelain rim, panting. My whole body was covered in a cold sweat.
“Who the hell sent this?” I gasped. The sound of my own voice was suddenly unfamiliar: hoarse, hard and full of rage. Find him. Find the one who sent this before he tells someone.
But I had no leads.
“Fuck!” I smacked my hand against the sink, making my palm sting. What the hell do I do now?
Just then the sound of a car door closing snapped me out of it. It was followed almost immediately by the quick sound of Zoe’s footsteps on the concrete garage floor. Shoot! It’s Wednesday! Errands day. She always got back in the late afternoon so we could spend time together.
I quickly folded the papers and jammed them into the envelope. As Zoe opened the door, I shoved the envelope into my back pocket.
“Hey baby,” Zoe said as she walked through the door with her arms loaded with groceries. “Chicken was on sale.”
“Uh, hey babe. That’s great. Barbecue this Sunday?” I stepped over to take them from her, forcing a smile. The frozen goods in one bag had started to thaw, spotting the plastic bag with droplets inside. I turned to put them away, filing the meat trays into their row on the top shelf and the frozen veggies and fruits onto the bottom. Oh God. Get it together, Carter, you stupid bastard!
“That was the plan. Hey, everything okay?” Zoe asked as she stepped around to the side of the fridge to address me. She looked at me with a confused face, dark eyes searching mine. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Her tone was joking, but her words started my heart beating like a trip-hammer all over again. This was not good. She was noticing things. “Hah, uh what?” I did my best to sound confused. My lips felt brittle as I forced them into a smile, like the skin might suddenly split and leave me bleeding. I shoved the last of the freezer groceries into place and shut the door, turning to her.
“I said you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Zoe said again, moving in toward me for a hug. I hugged back stiffly. She was warm against my chilled skin and her hair smelled like lavender. It drove the memory of the kid’s corpse-stench out of my nostrils and reminded me that I was still free and had time to figure out a plan to deal with this.
“A ghost?” I laughed as I let out a deep breath, now a bit more relaxed. “Ha ha no, just one of those days at work. Bob being…Bob.” I pulled out a cold coconut water from the fridge and handed it to her. “He gave me five more clients to process by Friday.”
“Seriously! Again?” Zoe exclaimed, giving me another squeeze. We had started touching each other more since I started making more of an effort to spend time with her. It was nice...reassuring. I just hoped she couldn’t sense the tension still churning my guts...or grab a handful of suspicious envelope instead of my ass.
She was still talking as she stepped back to open her drink. I focused back on her voice. “You really need to tell that man you’re busy enough,” she was saying, her worry now focused on something else.
“Yeah, well, I’m one of the few guys who still does his job instead of sitting around waiting for the next round of layoffs. But it makes me think more and more about moving to another branch.” Away from here, and all this trouble that’s trying to catch up with us.
It’s actually not a bad idea. The company was expanding, and a transfer to another city would get our moving expenses covered, and allow us to stay in a hotel for three weeks while we looked for a place.
“But where?” Zoe looked at me with a mix of curiosity and concern. “I thought you wanted to stay in Florida.”
“I did, but...you know, it would be nice to live someplace that isn’t a steam-bath full of mosquitoes.”
I’d never really thought of living anywhere but Florida, even without all the things I hated. But now with some mystery person leaving anonymous threats in our mailbox, maybe it was better to leave as soon as possible. I had heard that living out West was nice. Maybe we could move to Nevada, New Mexico, or even California. Oregon and Washington were too damn cold—but all those states had new branches of my company that were hungry for bodies.
“All right, maybe we can look into that.” She looked strangely impressed as if she liked the fact that I was opening my mind to the idea. She had talked to me a few times about leaving Florida before no
w, but I had dismissed it so many times that she had stopped. Maybe she just never stopped thinking about it. “But no Midwest, and no Northeast. I’m done with icy cold winters.”
This time when I laughed it was a little less forced. “Yeah, me too.”
I had done all of one Philly visit, back before Zoe had finally decided she was done with her alcoholic, bitchy divorcee of a mother. I had spent Christmas vacation shivering the whole time and had landed on my rear twice thanks to black ice. I insisted that next time, her mother come spend the holidays with us where it was nice and warm. She had, of course, never taken us up on the offer.
I unloaded the second bag into the fridge while we talked. “There’s the Atlanta branch.” Not really far enough for my tastes, but I couldn’t tell her why, so I left that be.
“Atlanta’s nice. Big and crowded though. What about Asheville?” I heard her take a swallow of coconut water as I put the milk away.
“Nice but eh, maybe a little too country. Sparks, Nevada has a new branch. There’s also Chico, San Dimas, Orinda and a few other places on the West Coast.”
“Mm, California. You know Carol and James are over there in the wine country. It’s beautiful.” She sounded very convinced now.
I finished up and shut the fridge. “Yeah, we could drive up on the weekends in good weather...which in California is most of the year.” I turned a smile on her, subconsciously touching the papers in my back pocket.
“That we could, and we would be well away from the notorious Florida Man.” She winked, and I snorted.
The Florida Man meme was entirely too real to those of us who actually lived in Florida. One of the million reasons I wasn’t very social was that in any given neighborhood, there always seemed to be a few people who were genuinely unbalanced and even dangerous. It was sad but easy to spot those prematurely aged from drugs, booze, and too much sun. Their ugly tattoos, missing teeth, and bad attitudes were proof to everyone that upstairs, something wasn’t quite right. But others, you just didn’t know they were crazy until they snapped. Thank God no one close to me was like that.
