Gold Promise

by Ninie Hammon

  Sparky and Bundy had chased a butterfly to the other side of the yard and now the puppy was pawing at something in the dirt there. An ant or a bug. T.J. thought of the letter he'd wrote to Santa for Sparky last year, asking for a box of moths for Christmas.

  When he called Sparky, the puppy came loping along with him. He put the puppy in his crate, and the little dog put up a ruckus until Sparky hopped in beside him, lay down and promptly went to sleep. The puppy quieted then.

  Bailey looked at T.J., as if begging him to talk her out of this. But she wouldn't listen if he'd tried.

  He walked with her to the studio, closed the door behind her and then leaned up against the back wall while she set about mixing paints on the pallet. They'd know pretty quick if—

  Bailey touched the brush to the darkness beneath the bed in the picture and he watched her fall down that tunnel his mama told him about, the dark pipe leading down into greater darkness where factories turned out monsters to populate all the nightmares in the world.

  She picked up another brush with her other hand, leaned her head back, closed her eyes and painted in a fury that had to be seen to be believed.

  Naaaa, even seeing it, he didn't believe.

  T.J. shivered and wasn't cold in here, neither.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Seated at his desk in his office, Brice appeared to be pouring over incident reports ranging from a cat stuck in a tree — no kidding, a cat in a tree — to domestic violence and a series of bash-and-runs on cars parked overnight in the Joe's Hole Marina parking lot. There'd be twice as many on his desk tomorrow morning — Halloween pranks gone south.

  When he was a teenage boy in Shadow Rock, he had been the ringleader of a house toilet-papering ring that had laid waste to a whole street — had plans, and a sufficient stash of toilet paper, for the whole neighborhood … but it had started to rain.

  Kids these days were no less inventive but more destructive. He had a theory about why that was, one that provided him the opportunity to engage in his favorite anti-video-game rant. Last year, kids had dragged old couches out into the middle of the street and set them ablaze, had broken all the windows on the south side of Madison Elementary School and had — he still didn't know how they'd pulled this off — killed the electrical service to the whole south side of town. Kavanaugh County Regional Hospital had operated on generator power for most of the night.

  He and his buddies used to dress up as ghosts or monsters and jump out of the bushes and scare the little kids. That was no longer a Halloween entertainment option. Now, small children were escorted from house to house by their parents — who later inspected every piece of candy before they'd allow their kids to eat it. Though there'd never been a single case of tainted Halloween candy in Shadow Rock, the national paranoia had infected even his little corner of the world.

  But he wasn't concentrating on the incident reports on his desk. The Kavanaugh County sheriff was thinking about the night before at the casino when Bailey connected to the girl whose brutalized face haunted a canvas on an easel in her studio.

  Bailey had wanted so badly to help the girl. They all had. But if the girl refused to listen …

  This wasn't as simple as getting people out of the way of a flood. That hadn't been easy, of course, but it had been simple and uncomplicated. Convince them, trick them or bribe them — do whatever you have to do because a flood was an event with a beginning and an end and then the danger was past.

  He rubbed his right forearm, the arm broken two months ago after Bailey'd attempted what T.J.'s mother never had — she'd tried to intentionally paint a portrait of a kidnapped child. No one could ever have predicted the chain of events that painting set in motion, but nothing about it had any bearing on what was happening now because Bailey hadn't decided to paint this portrait. She'd been compelled to — by what force, nobody knew. Just like all the paintings T.J.'s mother had painted half a century ago.

  "Sheriff McGreggor."

  Brice looked up and saw his chief deputy, Raleigh Fletcher, standing in the doorway. His tone of voice suggested that might not have been the first time he'd tried to get the sheriff's attention.

  "Sorry, I was zoned out on—" Brice gestured at the pile of papers.

  "This trumps all that. We got a floater."

  "How long?" Recovering the body of a drowning victim was always an unpleasant experience. The degree of unpleasantness was directly correlated to the amount of time the body'd been in the water.

  "Not long. Think hours, not days. But there's more. This isn't your garden variety floater."

  Fifteen minutes later, the sheriff was standing on the dock at Joe's Hole Marina listening to the near-hysterical rant of a Michigan boat owner who'd only wanted a weekend of relaxation for his wife and kids, he said, and didn't expect to create memories for his children that would haunt them rather than delight them for the rest of their lives.

  He was a hound-dog-faced man with droopy eyes and a bulbous nose crisscrossed with a web of tiny red veins.

  "The kids were right there, watching." His voice shook. "They saw." He studied Brice's face to make sure the whole horror of that statement had registered. "My children saw the body."

  He glanced to where his wife stood apart, children on both sides, her arms around their shoulders, a girl about ten, a boy maybe twelve. She had them crushed up against her. Neither appeared as upset as their parents. Brice suspected that the boy was looking forward to impressing his friends with the story.

  "I'm sorry for what you and your family have gone through, Mr. Abercrombie. We don't want to prolong this painful process, so if you'll just start at the top and tell me everything."

  "Okay, okay …" The man took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. "We were out in the middle of the lake, out where it's really deep. Some of the biggest fish are in that part of the lake, but you know as well as I do you can't fish there once the ski boats and the jet skis and the speed boats and all the rest get revved up."

  "What time did you—?"

  "Before dawn. Still so dark we had to use running lights. When we thought we were out in really deep water, we dropped anchor and started fishing."

  "Catch anything?"

  "Some. Nothing like we'd been hoping for. And then the sun came up and the wild-eyed crazies showed up, zipping around us, throwing wakes three feet tall. Wasn't long before we felt like the center pole on a merry-go-round and we decided to pack it in."

  He paused then, took another deep breath.

  "I started to pull in the anchor. For a few seconds everything was fine, but then the motor on the crank started straining. I told my wife, I said, 'Margaret, that anchor's caught on something.' I figured we had hooked onto a tree stump. I was hoping the anchor would pull free, but it didn't. I was sure the rope was going to break and we'd lose the anchor. That thing was expensive and I didn't want … but then …"

  He lost his breath again, genuinely shaken.

  "Take your time, Mr. Abercrombie."

  "There was hardly any rope left and I should have been able to see the anchor coming up through the water. But I couldn't see … then I could tell the anchor'd snagged a chain. I couldn't see … thought what on earth is that chain …? I didn't know until it broke the surface. That's when I saw the …"

  The man started talking faster, panting.

  "It was right up close to the boat and I could tell … Margaret saw what it was and she started screaming."

  "What did you see, Mr. Abercrombie?"

  "A dead body! The anchor'd got caught on a chain … On one end of the chain was a body, with the chain wrapped around and around it. On the other end of the chain was a piece of concrete, the kind builders use to … you know, whatever builders do with those concrete blocks. I made the children go below. Margaret took them and she was crying. Amy was crying. I can't tell you how awful …"

  He began to pant again.

  "Get your breath, Mr. Abercrombie. You're doing just fine."

 
The boy, clutched tight by his mother, was trying to see past the officers to the end of the dock where his father had left their houseboat and its grisly cargo.

  "I didn't know what to do. I mean, what do you do when something like that happens? I thought about just cutting the anchor rope, letting it sink. But I couldn't do that. Somebody chained that woman to that concrete block. Somebody killed her! I had to come in to the dock, drag it in to the dock. So I got on the phone and dialed 911, said I wanted to report a murder."

  "You did the right thing, Mr. Abercrombie. Thank you for keeping your cool in a very difficult situation." The sheriff motioned for a deputy. "This is Deputy John Tackett. He's going to take your formal statement."

  "I just gave you my statement! Why do I have to—?"

  "We have to have every detail. I'm sure you understand, this is a murder investigation. He's going to record what you say, transcribe it for you to sign."

  "Transcribe? Sign? You mean we have to …?"

  Deputy Tackett ushered the Abercrombie family away and Brice walked down to the yellow police tape that had been stretched across the whole end of the dock. A lone houseboat was tied up there and half a dozen sheriff's deputies, West Virginia State Police troopers, rescue squad and water patrol officers were swarming over the end of it.

  He crossed the deck of the boat and stood watching. Water patrol officers had cut the anchor rope and were lifting the whole thing — the anchor, the body and the piece of concrete block it was chained to, onto the dock. The woman was naked and nothing much was left of her face. But Brice could see even from where he was standing that she had freckles. When they rolled her over onto her side, there was a scar on her hip.

  This was the girl from the casino last night.

  This was the girl whose portrait Bailey had painted.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  He is the one who always hurts them. Jacko. The Beast. He could hand the task off to one of the others — the ugly one called Vincent. Or Nick, the black guy with red hair.

  But Jacko always does the job personally because he is careful not to "damage the merchandise." No, it's not that. He does it himself because he enjoys it. She can tell by the look in his eyes, the glow there, and the little half smile that parts his lips.

  He was smiling when he kicked Poli in the face and broke her teeth. She couldn't see his face, but she knows he was smiling. She could hear the smile in his voice when he told Poli she would need no mask for Halloween. And Jeni had almost cried out then, almost made a sound and he'd have known she was there, cowering under the bed. Watching.

  But she had kept silent, had bitten on her lip until the copper taste filled her mouth, watching him lift Poli off the floor with hands as big as shovels around her neck, Squeezing. Squeezing. Then Poli had stopped struggling, hung limp, a rag doll. But he didn't just let go. He flung her across the room and her body made a sick, splatting sound on the wall. But Jeni didn't cry out. She kept quiet.

  For all the good it did her.

  She had been so stupid. Taking the ring — so foolish. She would pay for that stupidity now. He would hurt her, hurt her bad. They must turn in all "gifts." But he doesn't know the truth. And she must not tell him. If he finds out, he will kill her.

  He grabs her shirt and yanks her forward, lowering his face until it is inches from hers and the stench of his breath is overpowering, the feel of his spittle on her face sickening. His voice is raspy, gravelly, sounds like a damaged voice, like he has yelled so long and loud that his throat is raw. It reminds her of the big chains dragging across the metal deck of the ship.

  "You will tell me the truth, yes. You will, you know. So tell me now and I will not have to hurt you."

  But she knows he will hurt her no matter what she says. She watched him hurt Poli and she knows. She stammers that she has told him the truth, that she found the ring on the sink in a hotel room. Some woman must have left it, and she was going to give it up, was planning to …

  "You think I believe you found this ring?" He is holding the shiny piece of sterling silver, tiny and delicate. Poli'd had it on her little toe and they didn't see. So she'd kept it. Hid it away. "Just found it?"

  She only nods her head frantically, wants to plead her case, try to convince him, but she has no voice. No words come.

  He smiles that little smile.

  "We'll see about that."

  He tosses her onto the bed, shoves her onto her belly and ties her hands to the post at the head of the bed — with soft fabric, like velvet — so it will not leave a mark. He is careful not to damage the goods.

  She is so scared she might be sick, might vomit. It will hurt so bad. Whatever it is he is about to do to her will hurt so bad, but she has to be strong. She can't tell him. If she tells him, he won't just hurt her. He will kill her.

  She looks back over her shoulder at him standing beside the bed and sees that he has something in his hand. It looks like a piece of rubber hose. She would beg him, plead with him not to hurt her with it but it will do no good.

  She has to be strong.

  He hits her with the hose across her lower back, just a small blow, but even that much staggers her and she screams.

  Then he hits her again, harder, and she cries out louder. She has to be strong, turns her face away, tenses for the next blow. She has to—

  He hits her again and she wails this time. The pain radiates up her back to her shoulders and all the way down her legs to her knees.

  When he hits her the fourth time, it hurts so bad she can only grunt and her whole body shakes, like she is having a seizure.

  "A boyfriend, too, yes? Like Poli. Did he give you the ring? Were you planning to run away with him like your stupid friend?"

  And with what little breath she has, she tells him that she has no boyfriend, no one gave her the ring — she found it. She is telling him the truth.

  So he hits her again and again. Does not even ask her about the ring anymore. She writhes on the bed, rolls over onto her side, trying to roll onto her back and draw up her knees to take the blows, but he grabs her hair and shoves her face-down on the mattress.

  She can hardly breathe, and he hits her again.

  Screaming into the mattress, kicking her feet, struggling to get free, his hand tangled in her hair.

  He hits her again. And again.

  Sometimes she feels nothing, like her whole body is numb and the room and everything in it are just a horrible dream.

  At some point, she is no longer struggling. She tries, but she can't move anymore. The agony has torn loose something inside her. She feels it tear loose.

  She will do anything to make him stop, say anything, tell him anything, but she can say nothing with her face smashed into the mattress and he just keeps hitting her.

  The world grays out, is almost completely gone, and then he grabs her arm, rolls her over onto her back, gets down into her face.

  "Where did you get—?"

  He is panting, his breath rancid, and she breathes it deep into her lungs when she gasps in a breath, and speaks as soon as she has enough air.

  "Poli's ring. From when she was little. Only I knew where she kept it."

  "She couldn't have hidden—"

  "The post on the bed …" It hurts so bad, she can't breathe. "Unscrew and there is space—"

  "Why would you steal her ring?"

  She pauses, but not because she will not answer. She will tell him anything. She just needs air for her words.

  "I took … to remember her."

  Jacko never shows emotion, real emotion, but even through the haze of agony she can see that he is genuinely surprised.

  Now, she has to do this one last good thing. But she can only do it if he doesn't ask, because if he does, she will tell him. She doesn't want to, but she knows that she will tell him anything he wants to know. So she hurries on.

  "I knew her plan. Poli's room … last night. I went to—"

  "You were in Poli's room last night?"

 
"To talk her from it. To beg her no …" She drags in another agonized breath. "Hiding under Poli's bed. You … strangled her. I saw."

  She wants him to kill her, to put his hands around her neck and squeeze and make the pain go away. Kill her while she still holds onto one truth. One last truth.

  Poli wanted to die, too. Jeni saw it when their eyes met and held for that single, brief moment.

  He straightens up, turns to the man who has been watching from the doorway, the ugly man called Vincent whose face has little holes in it and whose nose is broken and flat.

  The room is swimming now. The lights grow brighter with each heartbeat and then dim again. Though the man is standing right beside her, his words are muffled by a great roaring sound in her head.

  Words. Disconnected phrases.

  Pictures. Brochure. Video.

  " … no way she knows who …"

  " … not assets anymore …"

  "… have to cut bait …"

  "… into little pieces …"

  Jacko laughs, cold and grim, turns back to the bed and unties the velvet straps.

  "Get up."

  She only looks at him. The words make sense, but there is no connection. She can't tie them to any purpose or action because the world is nothing but pain, all pain, everywhere.

  "Get up or I'll pull you up by your hair."

  Like he did Poli.

  He takes her arm and hauls her up to a sitting position. Then he grabs a handful of her hair. She can't let him …

  … a pile of bloody blonde curls on the floor.

  Somehow she manages to shove herself upward on her numb legs. She stands, holding onto the bed post still encircled by the strips of velvet he'd used to tie her hands. She sways as Jacko speaks.

  "I left no mark. She can work until we're ready."

  Then the little smile is there again, he says something but the buzzing in her head eats most of his words. She hears only a few clearly and they don't make sense.

  " … training video and you'll be the star of the show."

  He gets into her face again, his breath unspeakably foul.