Red-Blooded Heart

by V. J. Chambers

  “You’re not denying that you killed her.” His voice is quiet.

  I laugh again. I turn to him, look him directly in the eye. “I didn’t kill Alice.”

  “And the fire, you didn’t set that either?”

  “No.” I pick up my shotgun.

  He startles. I guess he hadn’t seen it before. He must have been so intent on watching my face and taking notes in his little notebook that he didn’t pay attention to his surroundings. He’s a pretty shitty detective, isn’t he? Not very observant.

  I don’t point the shotgun at him. It’s not even loaded. I lift it and aim out into the woods behind the yard. “Great hunting out here, too. Usually, I don’t hunt while in the hot tub, but I could.” I grin at him.

  “Look, why don’t you put that down?”

  “It’s not loaded,” I tell him. “Listen, you have the wrong idea about me. I would never hurt a woman. That’s not the kind of man I am. As far as I know, Alice set that fire herself so that she could get away clean. Maybe she didn’t realize that they’d still be looking for remains in a burnt-out building.”

  “You’re saying Alice faked her death.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would she do that?’

  I could offer him reasons, but I don’t know if it’s worth my time. I’m debating my next move. This guy talks a good game, saying that he’s not the police and that he can’t arrest me. It’s technically true, but he knows where I am, and he could tell the police all about me. Maybe he already has. Maybe I’m screwed.

  But I figure he hasn’t. His first move would be to come up here and see what he could get from me first. Now, he’ll go and try to get the law to lean on me. I really can’t let him do that.

  I hold out the shotgun to him. “You’re a detective, right? You carry a gun?”

  “I don’t, actually,” he says. “Don’t need one.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You can look at it if you want.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Oh, go on.” I grin. “If you did have a gun, it’d probably be a handgun, and they’re the kinds of guns anyone can use. Just point and shoot, right?”

  “I guess,” he says. “But I’m not here to talk about guns.” He looks alarmed, though. There’s fear in his eyes, and he’s starting to sweat.

  I push the gun into his hands. “This thing holds one round, and then you gotta reload. It forces you to be strategic about your shots. You can’t afford to miss. You have to have skill.”

  He tries to give the gun back to me. “If you don’t want to help me out, I can make things more difficult for you. You seem to have gone to great pains to hide yourself out here. I could make sure that all kinds of people knew where you were.”

  Yeah, well, now he’s being obvious about it. He’s forcing my hand. I don’t have a choice here. It’s a pity, because it means I’m going to get behind on Juniper’s house, and I hate to let her down, but what can I do?

  I reach over to my chair and pick up a shell for the shotgun. “It’s a break-open shotgun,” I tell him. “You crack it open and put the ammo into the back of the barrel.”

  He doesn’t do it. “You want this to be solitude, right? Well, I’ll make sure you’re never alone.”

  I break open the gun myself, so that the back of the barrel is exposed. Now instead of pointing straight out, the barrel points at an angle towards the ground. “Here. You put the shell in here.” I give him the shell.

  He takes it, but he looks frustrated. “I know you’re hearing what I’m saying.”

  “Like this.” I grab his wrist and shove the shell into the gun. Then I pop the barrel back into place, so it’s level again.

  “I’m not interested in your stupid gun.” And now he’s angry.

  “Cock it,” I tell him. “It’s simple, but it takes time to load each shot.”

  He does not cock the shotgun. Instead, he thrusts it at me.

  “Whoa, careful,” I say. “This thing is loaded. I would hate it if we had an accident.” I cock the shotgun, pointing the barrel at his stomach.

  His eyes widen.

  “It’s nothing personal, Darius,” I say softly, apologetically.

  And then I pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER SIX

  -deke-

  The gunshot freaks out my chickens. They have a little coop, but in the summer, they mostly roam around the whole front yard. So, at the sound of the shot, they all cluck and flutter their wings. Feathers go everywhere. At least three of them are at the bottom of the deck, and they are all puffed up and indignant. They’re used to my shooting the gun doing target practice. They’re not really frightened. They’re scolding me, though.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to the chickens.

  I lower the gun and I look back at Darius.

  I could claim it was an accident. An awful freaking accident. Poor Darius just wanted to look at my shotgun, and I yelled at him, told him to be careful, but the poor bastard blew himself up.

  It might even work, but it’d be a pain in my ass, and it would draw a lot of attention to me. Plus, who the hell knows what they can tell these days with blood spatter and gun shot residue patterns and all that weird forensic shit. It’s probably better not to bring the cops into it. I doubt that the cops out here have any weird forensic shit, of course. West Virginia is not exactly drowning in money, and that stuff is expensive. There’s so little crime around here that there are only two police officers for the whole area. I know both of them.

  Yeah, I could get away with it being an accident.

  I consider it for a while. I don’t move Darius. I kneel down and stare at his face.

  He doesn’t die right away. He’s yelling and gurgling, and there’s blood pouring out of the wound on his stomach, and I am going to have to rip up this whole section of my deck and redo it, because I’ll never get all the blood out.

  He’s going to die, though. I’m sure of it. I wait, and I think about calling up the local police and telling them about this horrible accident that happened. I like the idea because it’s a lot less labor intensive. Other people will remove his body, and they might even do some of the cleanup.

  But it won’t go away nearly as fast. It’ll be hell.

  No, I can’t do it.

  I have to get rid of Darius and rip up my damned deck.

  I glare down at him in his gurgling death throes. “You poor, sad fuck. You’re only here because you were being paid. I wish you could have left it alone. I really wish that.”

  I turn away from him, because now I’m feeling guilty. I’ve done some shitty things in my life, but this is really shitty. Darius really didn’t deserve this. He was just doing a job. It sucks that he had to pay with his life, but I was desperate here. In the end, we all put our own survival first. I had to do this or else it would fuck everything up for me. I just couldn’t risk leaving him alive.

  “Damn it,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Damn it, Darius, couldn’t you leave it alone?” I turn back to look at him.

  He’s not gurgling anymore. His eyes are wide open and there is blood leaking out of his mouth.

  Well, okay, like I said, this is going to cut into my time with Juniper’s house. I figure I won’t get out there at all today. I’ll be dealing with Darius’s body all day.

  Darius is right about one thing. Burning a body is not a great way to get rid of it. It’s not impossible to cremate a body on one’s own, but it takes a really hot fire, and probably a burn barrel, and a lot of fuel. I mean, I’ve never done it myself, but that is what I understand happens.

  Think about it. A human body has a lot of water in it and fluids. That doesn’t burn. It’s not like dead bodies want to be ash.

  What dead bodies want to be is meat.

  They are meat, in fact.

  Don’t get worried. I’m not a cannibal. But there are things out in the woods here that don’t have any problem eating human flesh. Scavenger birds and even some bears and wolves and that kind of thing. Best to let the
m pick the bones of Darius clean. They’ll destroy any evidence in the meantime.

  So, I’m going to be making a trek into the wilderness.

  I can go part of the way in my truck. There’s not exactly a road out beyond my house, but there’s a sort of, uh, path that can be navigated by the right kind of vehicles. Eventually, it gets impossible, and then I’ll have to go on foot, but I can save myself a little effort by putting Darius in my trunk.

  However, I can’t have Darius leaving his DNA all over my truck bed, either, so I’m going to need to find a way to transport him.

  Considering I live off the grid, I don’t have Dexter-like spools of plastic drop cloths lying around. Plastic is not very friendly to the environment, you know?

  And, hell, I’m not one of those assholes who’s all “save the earth” or whatever. I think nature is more resilient and more brutal than it’s often given credit for. But at the same time, what’s the point of using something that just becomes trash? I don’t have anyone come and pick up my waste every week. I can’t just bag it up and leave it by the curb. There are things that I can’t reuse or compost or biodegrade. I usually put those things in a pit out in the woods behind my house. I’d rather not add to that pit if I don’t have to. Which is just a roundabout way of saying that I don’t really have a lot of plastic stuff out here on my homestead unless I’m putting it to use as best I can.

  So, plastic is out.

  I do have a tarp that might work, but then I’ll have to wash the thing off afterwards—probably bleach it, actually. I’m not one of those off-gridders who freaks about harsh chemicals, but I don’t really use a lot of bleach either. It’s a nice tool to have, but it’s not something I use every day. I don’t have a lot of bleach. I don’t know if I have enough bleach to bleach the tarp.

  Hell, I’m going to end up having to make a supply run. And I haven’t been in to buy anything in months. It’s going to break my streak.

  I give Darius’s body an annoyed look, but I can’t really be mad at the guy, because I feel so bad about having to kill him. I figure Darius might be married or something. He might have kids. Maybe he’s got some cute little daughter who wears her hair in pigtails. It’s not fair that her daddy’s never coming back to her. And it’s my fault.

  Shit.

  I have to go walk into the front of the house away from the body for a bit. I scold myself as I pace out there. Yeah, killing Darius was shitty. Yeah, I’m a shitty person. But I can’t think about that, because it’ll eat a hole in me. Sometimes, you have to do shitty things to survive. That’s all.

  I force myself to take a deep breath, and then I go searching in my lean-to shed for that tarp.

  It doesn’t take long to find it. I also have a bit of rope in there too. I bring the tarp back and lay it on the ground next to the deck.

  Then I roll Darius off the deck and onto the tarp.

  Well, there’s not as much blood on the wood as I expected. I might get away with replacing four or five boards, actually. Not too bad. I’m lucky.

  I arrange Darius on the tarp and tie off the ends with rope.

  Then I drag the body over to my truck.

  I heave it up into the truck bed.

  Damn, that’s heavy. Back’s going to be sore tomorrow.

  I close the truck bed, and I head out down that sort-of path for as long as my truck can hack it. When it becomes too narrow and too overgrown, I get the body out of the back of the truck and I drag the tarp through the woods. I go as far out as I can manage. When I’m exhausted, sweaty, and dying of thirst, I decide this is as good a spot as any. I untie the tarp and dump him out. I don’t cover him up or anything. I want the insects and the animals and the bacteria to get to him. I don’t want him preserved. I want him to be eaten up and taken away.

  I limp back to the truck where I have some water. I guzzle it and head back to the homestead.

  Now, of course, I have the problem of Darius’s little silver car.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  -deke-

  Fucking car.

  It’s not as if I can go out into the wilderness and ditch the car and something will eat it. No, it’ll stay out there and rust, and someone will find it, and then they’ll wonder why the car’s out there, and they’ll go looking for Darius’s body.

  The car has to go, though.

  Just not into the wilderness, and nowhere near my house.

  It’s better if I don’t drive the car myself. If I get in there, I’ll leave my fingerprints everywhere and maybe a stray hair or a skin cell or something. DNA is like a signature. No, I’m not driving that thing.

  Instead, I go into my shed and start digging around until I find my hitch. I knew I had one in here somewhere. I used it to haul up my old car when I first came out here to live. After I arrived, I sold the car, and then I never used that hitch again.

  Using gloves—can’t be too careful—I attach his car to my truck, and then I go look at the back deck. I debate whether or not I should take out the wood that’s been bled on now, or if it can wait until tomorrow.

  I think that it’s unlikely anyone’s going to come looking for Darius soon.

  On the other hand, maybe he asked someone about my whereabouts, and that’s how he found me. Maybe he didn’t use a property record search. So, maybe that person will know that he was coming out to see me. If so, it’s probably better to be safe than sorry.

  So, I go back to the deck and use a crowbar to rip out the boards on the deck that have blood on them. I throw them on the pile with my fire wood. As soon as they dry out, I’ll burn them.

  Satisfied that there’s no more sign of Darius anywhere, I head back to my truck and begin the difficult task of maneuvering out of my driveway with the other car hitched to the back of my truck.

  It takes a while, but I get it out, and then I’m driving down the road, pulling the car.

  I’m not totally sure where I’m heading. I figure I’ll drive out back roads, maybe forty-five minutes to an hour away, and then I’ll ditch the car. If they find his car out there, they’ll think that he should be close to his car. They’ll look around for him out there for a long while. Hopefully, they don’t make any connection to me right off. Or at all.

  I round a bend and there’s Henry Watson’s truck out in the middle of the road.

  I pull to a stop to avoid hitting him.

  He leans out the window, surprised that anyone else is there.

  I don’t like Henry Watson, and I’m not really sure why. Guy just bugs me. He’s middle-aged, maybe in his late fifties, and he’s really friendly, so maybe that’s it. I don’t know. Or maybe it’s just easy to hate a guy named Henry.

  He’s the only other person who lives on Fisher’s Road.

  He waves at me.

  I lean out my window. “What’s going on, Henry?”

  Henry lives in an off-grid trailer right at the point where Fisher’s Road turns from blacktop to a dirt road. He’s off the grid, but he mostly relies on generators to keep himself going, which means he’s always needing to buy fuel. He works in town, at the coffee shop, and I think he only took the job for the fuel money, but I don’t really know. He’s pretty shit at making coffee, if you ask me.

  But maybe I’m being hard on the guy because I don’t like him.

  “Nothing,” says Henry. “Just admiring the view.”

  “In the middle of the road?” I say. I get the feeling the guy put his truck in park to jack off or something. I do my best not to glower at the guy, but I’m annoyed.

  “Why not?” he says. “It’s God’s country, and there’s no one around—”

  “I’m around,” I say. “I’m trying to get through the road.”

  “Well, where are you going in such a hurry?” He grins at me. “I thought you stayed back there, tucked into your little homestead, pretty much all the time.”

  I sigh.

  “Does it have to do with that girl who’s moving in up the road? I heard we were going to have a neighbo
r.”

  “Yeah, I’m building her house for her,” I say.

  “So, what’s with that car?” he says. “I thought I just saw that car drive up the road. But a man was driving it.”

  I grit my teeth. “Listen, Henry, I don’t have time to sit here and chat.”

  “Oh, no? Well, well, well.” He looks me over. “Guess I better get moving then, so that you can get through.”

  “I’d be much obliged,” I say.

  He chuckles to himself, stroking his chin. Guy has a weak chin. He’d look better if he grew a beard. Maybe I don’t like him because of that chin. He ducks back into his car and starts it up. His truck starts down the road.

  I have to follow him, fuming.

  This isn’t good.

  Now, Henry’s seen me with the car. He’s asked questions about it, and he’s going to remember it.

  I didn’t lie to him about the car, because if you tell too many lies, then you have to keep them all straight, and that’s a recipe for disaster. So, I avoided telling him where the car came from, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not a really, really bad thing that he saw me with it.

  Anyone comes back here, asking questions…

  Well, it’s not going to be enough to ditch that car forty-five minutes away. No, this is going to be quite the road trip.

  Damn Henry Watson. Damn him to hell.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I drive the car four hours away, deep into the interior of West Virginia, the real middle of nowhere.

  Finally, when I feel as though I’ve gone far enough, I find myself as deserted a twisty-turny road as I can and drive up to the top of a hill. At the first bend I round, I stop the truck and unhitch that damned car. Using gloves, I put it in drive and push it right through the guard rail.

  It tumbles down into the green underbrush, between pine trees and bramble bushes, startling birds and squirrels.

  Down, down, down it goes, until it eventually crashes into a big tree trunk. By that time, it’s so far down in the gully that it’s hardly visible from above.