by Doug Kelly
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked John.
“I’m going to butcher it.” Ruth pulled harder on the rope. The goat bowed its head, spread its legs wide, and planted its hooves firmly into the frozen impressions of footprints. With yesterday’s slush frozen solid today, the goat’s hooves did not budge in the icy craters.
“Come on now,” said John. “There’s no sense in you freezing out here. Come back home with me. I have a place you can stay.”
Ruth saw his finger on the trigger of the shotgun and was very nervous. He was close enough now that, when the wind whipped in her direction, she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She pulled the rope again, harder still, and the goat bleated once more.
John watched her body language after his invitation. He could read the rejection as plain as day. His anger began to surface. John’s eye twitched and he bit his lip.
“Come on now,” repeated John. “It’s cold. Let me help you with that.” He reached for the rope leash, and Ruth quickly stepped back and pulled the rope harder.
She positioned herself so the goat was between John and her. “Get away from me!” ordered Ruth.
Incensed at what he perceived as disrespect, he yelled back, “You stupid bitch, I’m trying to help you!” He took an aggressive step toward Ruth. Scared, Ruth lashed out at John with the long fingernails on her right hand. He felt the slash across his face, tested the stinging pain with his fingertips, and felt the warm blood on his cheek cool in the winter breeze.
“You’re all the same, aren’t you?” said John, rhetorically. He tasted the blood on his lips, and rage filled his body. He lunged to grab her and slipped on a patch of ice. Just as he grabbed for her, the goat went forward, Ruth stumbled back, fell down, and hit her head on the icy curb as she did. When John landed face first on the street, his finger pulled the trigger. His ears rang; the fall and the alcohol disoriented him. He stood up and saw the tangled pile of bloody gore covering Ruth. He looked down at the smoking shotgun and tried to comprehend what he had done.
Joel Hales heard the blast and stumbled down the street to see what had happened. He slowed his approach when he saw the twisted bloody mess and stopped when he recognized Ruth.
“In God’s name,” said Joel. “What have you done?”
John touched his stinging face and began to walk backward. “She attacked me. I was protecting myself.” John looked around to see if any others saw what had happened. “She’s a thief. I caught her stealing a goat.”
“She’s not a thief,” Joel clenched his fists. “Her name is Ruth Miller. She is staying at Dylan’s house. The goat belongs to Dylan. You know that.”
John gasped, and he began to breathe hard. The shotgun was still on the ground. He picked it up, and Joel flinched. John’s eyes began to wander all over the neighborhood as he walked away, mumbling, “I did it again.” He stumbled home, believing he had committed murder for the second time.
Joel went to Ruth and pushed the bloody goat carcass off her. The goat had absorbed the shotgun blast, and coincidently, protected Ruth. Joel shook her gently, and she woke, startled, expecting to see John.
“He’s gone,” assured Joel.
“Oh, my head.” Ruth sat up and looked around in a daze. “The goat—” She quickly realized what had happened when she saw the bloody splatter on the front of her coat.
“Yeah, he’s gone,” said Joel. “I’m going to help you home. You’re probably dizzy, and you’ll need help walking.”
As much as he denied being a doctor, he caught himself assessing the way her pupils dilated, a common test for concussion. They appeared fine. He hooked his arm under her shoulder to help her stand. She was still holding the goat’s rope leash and dropped it when she realized this. They both stumbled and slipped on the ice as they made their way to Dylan’s house.
Back home, Mary helped her out of the bloody coat. She put it in the bathtub and filled the tub with melted snow to clean up the gory mess. Ruth quietly told Mary what had happened, wary that Brad and Jennifer might hear the horrid details. Joel stayed to keep an eye on Ruth, and they all waited for Dylan and Kevin to come back from gathering firewood. Mary winced when she thought of what Dylan and her husband might do.
John thrust the front door of his home open and leaped inside, closing the door just as quickly behind him. He nervously peeked out the living room windows to see if his fate was approaching from down the street. He was in trouble, he knew it, and he needed to leave quickly. He ran up the stairs and found his wife standing in the bedroom by his open closet door. She reminded him of an evil witch as she stood there with a blanket hung over her boney shoulders. Her eyes were sunken into her skull and her long hair was dark and greasy. When he stepped completely into the room, the smell of alcohol was overwhelming.
“I found your stash of booze,” she hissed. “It’s all gone.”
John pivoted around the room and looked into his closet where he had stored a dozen bottles of grain alcohol that he had helped Tom make. A pile of broken glass lay mounded on alcohol-soaked carpet. She had smashed all the glass jars. John slowly dragged his feet across the floor toward his wife. His mind started to drift away again.
Sandra looked at the bloody scratches across his face and snarled, “What have you done now, John?”
He began to raise his shotgun.
Sandra let go of the blanket. It fell to the floor, revealing a kitchen knife held tightly with her bony fingers.
John leveled the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The close range of the blast nearly ripped her body in half. John picked up the ejected shell and tossed it on her corpse. He looked at his hands and noticed that they were not shaking anymore. Amazed at how easy it was to do this time, he said, “Three.”
He packed a suitcase with some of his belongings and put it by the front door. He looked out the window to see if anyone was approaching. The streets were still clear. His plan was to go to Tom’s house and seek refuge. He opened the door and stopped. The half-full jar of alcohol was still on the kitchen counter. In the kitchen, he tipped the jar up, and in his haste to leave, took an unusually large gulp. He put the jar back on the counter and noticed a pack of matches. John picked up the matches with one hand, the jar with the other, and went upstairs. He held the jar at an angle above his wife’s corpse, slowly pouring the alcohol on her, and then poured a thin trail of alcohol into his closet. Taking a few steps back, he flicked a lit match onto the volatile fluid and a blue flame erupted. John left the burning house with a shotgun, the bandolier across his chest, and his suitcase. He dragged the suitcase through the snow and across the frozen stream to Tom’s farm.
Shivering, John stood in front of Tom’s house and felt like a pathetic stray dog. A soft blue light glowed through the front window, and he looked inside. Tom had sat in the living room near a rectangular propane heater element, vertically inset into a wall of the old farmhouse. The stainless steel backing behind the flames reflected the light and heat from the burners. Blue flames illuminated the room with a soft glow. Tom had placed a large blanket over the entrance to the kitchen to contain the room’s heat. Brown paneling covered the walls, and Tom, hypnotically staring into the flickering light, sat on a couch upholstered with blue corduroy fabric. John knocked on the door and when he did, Tom reached for his rifle.
Tom stood up. “Who is it?” he barked. His few visitors normally went to the back door. He thought a knock on the front door was odd, so he was glad to have the rifle in hand.
“It’s John.”
Tom relaxed. “What do you want?”
“Open the damn door. I’m freezing.”
Tom reluctantly opened the door, annoyed at John’s uninvited appearance. “Step inside.”
John felt a trickle of warm air escape through the open door, turned to glance at his suitcase, and hid the scratches on his face as he did. His mind began to race for an explanation of why he was here.
“Hurry up, it’s cold out there.”
Jo
hn grabbed the handle of his suitcase, went inside, and quickly closed the door. Inside the house, Tom noticed the luggage and asked what it was for as he moved back to the heater.
“Just some clothes.”
Tom put his rifle on the floor. “Just some clothes? And you carry your shotgun around, with a suitcase of clothes, at sundown?”
John did not know what to say. He turned to look back down at his suitcase, and Tom noticed the scratches on his face.
“I get it,” said Tom. “You got into a fight with your old lady, didn’t you?”
“I guess you could say that.”
Tom leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. “I could smell that shit on your breath. You’ve been drinking from your stash.”
“I guess you could say that, too.”
Tom shook his head. “You’re a fool for pissing away a lot of hard work. I hope you’re happy now. Was it worth it?”
“Was what worth it?”
Tom shook his head again. “I’m not going to play a guessing game with you.” He turned his head and looked sideways at John. “You want to stay here, don’t you?”
“Yeah, thanks, Tom.” He bent over to pick up his suitcase. “I just need to lay low for a while.”
“Hell, no!”
John sprang to attention. “What?”
“I said no!”
“C’mon man, don’t do me like this. I’ve got no place to go.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can go to hell. You’re a fool if you think I’m going to import your drama into my life.”
“But—”
“No!” Tom stood up and crossed his arms. When he stood, he sensed the smell of smoke in the air. His mind swiftly scanned the house, and he quickly tried to remember if he had left any candles lit.
“Smell that?” asked Tom.
“Smell what?”
Tom did not answer him. He dashed through the blanket covering the kitchen doorway. Through the kitchen window, past the open field of his backyard, Tom saw the orange glow of a house fire dancing behind trees that lined the stream dividing his property from the subdivision. Tom knew where John’s house was and, from the location of the fire, thought John’s house was burning. Tom pushed the hanging blanket to the side and stood in the doorway.
“John, I think your house is on fire!”
John did not react at first, and then he looked down.
Tom only needed to study John’s body language for a moment to understand his reaction. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Mind your own business, asshole.”
John moved the butt of the shotgun closer to his shoulder. Tom’s eyes went to his rifle on the floor, and he suddenly realized that he was in trouble.
“You better go now,” said Tom, trying to speak in a calm tone.
“No,” said John, as he leveled the shotgun. “It’s time for you to check out.”
John did not hesitate to pull the trigger. Tom saw it coming and spun around to run, but the blast caught him in the lower back. He went face down on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. Severely wounded, Tom moaned and writhed on the floor as blood pooled around him.
John said, “Four,” as he stepped over Tom to look out the kitchen window and see the flames growing outside. Then he looked back down at Tom struggling on the floor and thought about how it had become so easy to kill. The violent, orange glow beyond the trees brought him back to reality. He knew the burning house could bring unwanted attention his way, so he decided to escape with the truck. Confused thoughts circled his mind. Where could he go? Then he remembered seeing Michael at the bartering lot and wondered if he could find a place of refuge with him. Michael was in a gang and that meant safety in numbers. He could take Tom’s commodities with him and try to bargain his way into the gang with Michael. He took Tom’s rifle and went to work.
Inside a kitchen drawer, he found the truck’s key and distributor cap. It would be easy to reinstall. After sliding the barn door open, he popped the truck’s hood and put the distributor cap back onto the engine. Three goats bleated inside the barn. He ignored them as he stacked the boxes of liquor-filled Mason jars into the truck’s bed. Then he remembered seeing Tom harvesting marijuana, and went to the basement to find it, too. With the light of a small, dim flashlight, he found black garbage bags stuffed with dried marijuana. In his haste to gather the bags of marijuana, he forgot the flashlight in the kitchen.
John put the bags of marijuana around the boxes of alcohol as padding, covered it with a tarp, and lashed it all down tightly with a rope. John turned on the truck’s headlights, engaged the four-wheel drive, and carefully exited the driveway. His shotgun and Tom’s rifle were by his side. Snow covered the road, and he drove away slowly with his precious cargo secured tightly.
During Tom’s last moments, he summoned the energy to lift his fingers and paint with his warm blood the letters J-O-H-N on the cold linoleum floor.
Chapter Twenty Two
A distinct trail of footsteps marked the path from Dylan’s house to the trees near the lake where Dylan and Kevin routinely gathered firewood. Earlier in the day, they had gone into the barren timbers to chop wood. After hours in the forest, they were exhausted, so they decided to hide the split logs in a grove of evergreen trees and go home. On their way, with axe and hatchet in hand, Dylan and Kevin followed their trail of footsteps back to the garage and leaned their tools against the wall. Ready to escape the cold wind, they eagerly went inside.
“Daddy!” exclaimed Jennifer. She hugged her father tightly around the legs. Dylan knelt down to kiss her on the forehead.
“Hi, Kevin,” said Jennifer.
“What? No hug for me?”
She wrapped her short arms around his legs as far as she could and hugged him just as tightly.
“Be careful, you’re going to break my legs.”
Jennifer growled like a bear and then released him. “Come here.” Jennifer ushered them down the hall. “I want to show you something.”
The three went down the hallway to the bathroom with Jennifer in the lead. She went inside and pointed to the bathtub. They saw Ruth’s bloodstained coat soaking in the melted snow. “Ruth got hurt,” announced Jennifer. She saw the expressions change on the men’s faces. She wondered if she had said something wrong and slipped away to her bedroom, afraid she had angered her father and Kevin.
Panic set in. They did not realize that goat’s blood, not human blood, had turned the clear water sanguine. They called for Ruth and Mary, and they heard a faint reply from the master bedroom. They ran down the hall to the bedroom, expecting to see the worst. Much to their surprise, Ruth lay in bed, resting comfortably with a pillow behind her head. Mary was on one side of the bed and Joel on the other. Young Brad was at the foot of the bed playing with a toy truck. Kevin went to his wife and gave her a hug. He relaxed.
“You’re okay!” rejoiced Dylan. “The bathtub…your coat…the blood—”
Joel interrupted, “Let me explain.” He quickly glanced at Ruth, and she nodded with approval. “Apparently, Ruth was bringing a goat back home to butcher for David and Linda. John must have seen her walk by his house. He followed her up the street and confronted her.” His eyes went back to Ruth, and she nodded once more. He continued. “One thing led to another, and the confrontation turned physical. He got close, so she scratched his face and apparently enraged him.”
“Good for you,” said Dylan.
“I hope you scratched his eyes out,” added Kevin, as he squeezed his wife’s hand.
“That is when it got bad.” Joel looked once more at Ruth. She closed her eyes this time, emotionally dissociating while listening to Joel continue to explain the details of the event. “Ruth was pulling on the rope around the goat’s neck when John lunged at her. The road was slick, and he slipped at the same time she fell backwards. His shotgun discharged, and the goat took the blunt of the blast.” Ruth nodded her head. The details were correct. “She fell down and hit her head on the c
urb of the street.” Joel rubbed his chin. “If that goat hadn’t been there, well, I hate to think about that outcome. I heard the blast. I’m glad I came out to see what happened.” Joel touched Ruth’s leg as a cue that the story was finished. She opened her eyes and looked at Dylan. Rage filled his soul. She saw his nostrils flare in the dim evening light as he started to breathe rapidly.
“He’s going to kill somebody,” said Dylan.
“He already has,” Kevin reminded him. “Remember the nursery? The unarmed man he shot?”
“Yeah, I do. I meant that he is going to kill again.” Deep in thought, Dylan looked out the bedroom window before he spoke again. “Brad, go to your room. The adults are going to talk.”
Brad heard and understood the tone in his father’s voice. He immediately complied.
After a few moments of silence, Kevin said, “Well, Dylan, what are you thinking?”
“We’re going to—”
A loud knock at the front door interrupted Dylan.
“That’s Jim,” announced Mary.
“Or maybe not,” said Dylan as he went to get his rifle and answer the door. At the door, Dylan looked through the peephole. It was Jim, so he quickly opened the door.
“What the hell, Dylan? That’s no way to greet your neighbor.” Jim pointed at the rifle.
“Sorry, we had some trouble with John. I didn’t know who was at the door. Come on in. It’s cold out there.”
Jim held up his hands to signal Dylan to stop talking. “Heard all about it while you were out. I found one ibuprofen tablet for Ruth; she has a headache from the fall.”
“Step this way.” Dylan pointed to the bedroom. “I’m glad you’re here. We all need to talk.”
