by S. E. Green
My dad’s words come back to me about how he thought the killer had moved on. If this bald man is indeed the murderer, he was here the whole time. For all any of us know, he could’ve been hiding in our woods. Watching our every move.
Something vile crawls into my throat, and I swallow it down. He could have at any time taken me. Raped me. Tortured me. Killed me.
Travis reaches over and puts his hand on my knee, like he can read my thoughts. “He’s dead, and we’re safe.”
I nod. I know. But still.
I want this man to be guilty of it all, but what if he’s not? At least if he were still alive he could be questioned and hopefully his answers would connect pieces and fill in gaps. Because there are still so many unknowns.
Maybe the anonymous letter I sent to the press will spur answers to those unknowns.
Travis shifts, and my eyes go back to him. “Vickie, I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”
This doesn’t sound good. “Okay.”
“What did you pull from the pond the other night?”
I don’t immediately respond, and Travis just patiently keeps looking at me, waiting.
“How do you know I pulled something from the pond?”
“I saw you. You weren’t exactly stealth.”
I wanted to tell Travis, and now there’s no reason why I shouldn’t. “Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that we were being framed for this. Everything used in the murder was taken from our property and so I figured it was disposed of here, too. And it was. I found an air tight bag in our pond with the drop cloth, Michelle’s clothes, and a Satanic Bible. I didn’t find the weapon, though. So I drove over to the landfill and dumped it, and that’s when I saw Honey’s car following me which led me back to her house and you know the rest of the story there.”
“Vickie,” Travis sighs.
“Also,” I decide to come clean on everything, “I sent an anonymous letter to the press.”
His brows go up. “Why did you do that?”
“Because excuse me, but Crandall doesn’t seem to be getting anything done. If he’s not searching our place or questioning us, he’s saying they’re ‘getting close’ or reminding us to keep everything quiet. Forget it. I’m done. Whether anyone else believes it, I think there’s truth in Mark Doughtery’s ramblings. There is going to be an Ultimate Sacrifice if this thing isn’t stopped.”
Travis doesn’t say anything at first, and then he gives one affirmative nod. “Okay. Let’s first go to the landfill and make sure that bag got incinerated. Then we’re going to track down Uncle Jerry, I want to ask him about that Facebook thing you told me about. After that, we’ll figure it out.”
I take a breath, and for the first time in days, it doesn’t feel tight in my chest. “Thank you.”
“You got my back. I got yours.”
“BURN IN HELL!” a woman screams at us as we exit our driveway a few minutes later. She throws something at us, and Travis and I flinch as oil speckles and oozes down his windshield.
“Just keep your window up and your eyes forward,” he says.
A reporter rushes us. “What can you tell us about the cats?”
“When is the Ultimate Sacrifice?” Another one yells.
“I guess my anonymous letter has been read,” I say.
“Yep,” Travis agrees and keeps right on driving down the road and through the people who have gathered. “This place is about to become a mad house again.”
Yes, but I still don’t regret leaking the information. And Crandall? Well, I’m sure he’s really pissed, that’s for sure.
Ten minutes later we reach the landfill. It’s working hours and so the bulldozers are busy moving garbage around and dumping it into the incinerator. Travis pulls past all the dumpsters lining the entrance and through the open gate, taking the same path I did a few nights ago. He comes to a stop outside the large metal building that now sits open, where when I was here it was closed up tight.
He cuts his engine and jumps out. “Come on.”
I follow him across the dirt and toward the building, and a heavy set man with a hard hat emerges. He takes one look at us and pauses. “Can I help you?” he asks.
I have no clue what to say to the man. Travis, though, he holds his hand out like he knows exactly what to do, and they exchange a greeting. “A couple nights ago my sister and I dumped some stuff here and I just realized this morning that my school jersey was in it. Have you guys already incinerated this week’s garbage?”
The man looks between us and I pray he doesn’t recognize us from all the media coverage. “Where’d you dump it?” he asks.
I point over to the left where the big mounds sit and a bulldozer is currently lifting and moving garbage.
The man shakes his head. “Sorry, we disposed of that yesterday.”
Travis looks honestly bummed. “Okay, well, my loss. Thanks.”
We turn to leave and the man says, “Hey, why did you drive all the way in here? That’s why we have dumpsters down by the front gate.”
I don’t know what to say to that either, but Travis turns back around. “We had some large items that wouldn’t have fit in the dumpsters.” He gives the guy a wave. “Thanks again.”
I climb in the truck and close the door. “I don’t know if I should be in awe or worried that your lies came so quick and easy.”
“I was thinking of what to do the whole way here, so, yeah, the lies came easy.” Travis starts his truck. “Well, at least we know the evidence is officially gone.”
“Yeah,” I agree, but don’t feel any relief because the weapon used on Michelle is still out there somewhere.
“Now for Uncle Jerry,” Travis says and dials his number
WE SPEND THE next thirty minutes trying to track down Uncle Jerry. We call him, we go to PaPaw’s, we even drive by Bee-Bee’s place, but we can’t find him anywhere. Finally, we leave a message for him and head home to find Dad and Kevin in all-out yelling match. Or I should say Kevin is the one yelling.
“I hate you!” our little brother screams.
I cut Travis a muddled look. What is going on?
“You. Need. To. Calm. Down,” Dad carefully warns.
“She wasn’t supposed to be yours!” Kevin yells.
This is about Michelle.
From across the living room, Dad cuts me and Travis a look, and Travis grabs my arm. “Why don’t we give them some space?”
Kevin screams then and kicks the coffee table and it goes flying into the couch. Travis and I both back up.
“Where’s Mom?” Kevin screams again. “Did she leave again? DID SHE?”
Dad holds his hands up and this time his voice is sterner than calm. “No, Kevin. She didn’t leave again. She just went to run some errands. She’s coming back. I promise.”
Kevin digs his fingers into his hair and pulls. Hard. “Mom can’t have babies. Is that why you did it?”
Travis tries to tug me back out the front door, but I don’t go. I don’t want to leave Dad.
Dad shakes his head. “No, absolutely not. One thing had nothing to do with the other.”
“Well then why?” Kevin demands.
“People use sex for a myriad of reasons. That one time with Bee-Bee had nothing to do with love and everything to do with escape. I made a mistake.”
I think of Travis and Honey and that other couple they experiment with. I think of the two times I’ve gone to Wade. I’m surprised to admit that I understand.
Kevin takes several deep breaths before scrubbing his hands down his face and turning a glare back on Dad. “I’m not taking them anymore,” Kevin says. “You can’t make me.”
Dad cuts us another look, like he really wants us to leave, but still I stay. “Taking what?” I ask.
Kevin turns from Dad and looks right at me with a scowl that drives this overwhelming urge in me to move further away.
Dad steps forward. “Kevin—”
“What?” He looks between
all of us. “I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the secret.”
“What secret Kevin?” Because clearly this is about so much more than Dad being Michelle’s father.
“Kevin,” Dad slowly warns.
Okay, what is going on? I look at Travis and he doesn’t even seem to be breathing. Does he know what this is about?
Kevin expels a breath that comes out in this one long gush of air, and I watch as all the anger abruptly leaves his body and in its place settles this air of resolve, like he suddenly came to terms with whatever is going on in his brain. That’s good, because I want to know.
“I’m fine,” he says and moves forward to right the coffee table he just kicked. Dad helps him, and Travis turns toward the hall and our bedrooms.
“Okay, that’s not going to work for me,” I tell the room. “Kevin, what do you mean? What is going on? What are you taking? What secret?”
Kevin puts his hands on hips and turns to look at me. He doesn’t immediately say anything, and I patiently wait. Then with a deep breath in and heavy sigh out, he quietly admits, “I’m bipolar.”
I don’t take my eyes off of my little brother. “Bipolar? What does that mean?”
“Easily distracted, poor temper control, reckless behavior, irritability, insomnia, lack of appetite, episodes of depression mixed with those of happiness, thoughts of death,” Kevin rattles off in this annoyed voice like he’s reading from a textbook. “How’s that for screwed up?”
“Kevin . . .” I take a step forward, my heart breaking for him and my head confused and already trying to figure out how I can help. “How long has this been going on?”
“A couple of years,” Dad answers, and the last couple of tumultuous years with Kevin begin to make a little more sense.
“Why didn’t you want us to know?” I ask.
“Because!” Kevin throws his hands up. “Look at everyone. So perfect, so smart. Then there’s me,” he scoffs, “the ‘troubled’ one.”
My heart breaks even more. “Kevin—”
“Never mind,” he walks past, “I’m going to my room.”
I watch him all the way down the hall until his door opens and then closes before I turn back to Dad. “I take it there are medications, and he went off of them?”
Dad nods. “He’s old enough now that we can’t force him to take them. He has to be responsible and take them himself.”
“Is PaPaw helping him?” I ask. “Because I can’t believe he let Kevin hide this from us.”
“Yes, your PaPaw has been working with him. Vickie, I know you’re confused, but this was his secret to tell, not your mother’s or mine, or PaPaw for that matter.”
I glance over to Travis who’s being unusually quiet. “Did you know?”
He gives a guilty nod. “I’m sorry. I found out by accident, and Kevin swore me to secrecy.”
I try not to be hurt that I’m the only one who didn’t know, but things really do make more sense now. Travis talking to him when he’s upset. Travis trying to usher me out of the room when Kevin is exploding. He was trying to respect our little brother’s privacy.
“I want to know everything I can so I can support him.” I want to understand him and what he’s dealing with.
“Of course,” Dad says. “Travis has been talking with PaPaw, too, and now that you know, you two can speak with him together.”
Good, because I don’t want to be afraid of my little brother ever again.
THE NEXT MORNING I’m in the kitchen with Dad and Travis when a knock sounds on our door. We all glance over to see Bee-Bee standing on our porch. She looks at us through the screen door and offers up a kind smile. “Hi, can I come in?”
“Sure,” Dad says, waving her inside.
She gives another little smile as she steps through the door, but there’s something uncomfortable about it. I note then that she’s carrying a few things with her—a bag and a folder.
Dad motions her into the living room, and I glance at Travis. “Maybe we should,” I nod down the hall toward our bedrooms.
“No,” she says. “It’s okay. You can stay. Actually, I asked Jerry to come over, too, but I’m not sure if he’s going to show.”
Our back door opens, and Uncle Jerry walks right in, just like he’s done a million times before. Unlike the million times before, he doesn’t acknowledge Dad or Bee-Bee and instead goes to stand by the window where he folds his arms and stares out at the driveway. To my knowledge this is the first time the three of them have been in the same room since we all found out Dad slept with Bee-Bee. I wish they could figure it out. I hate all this tension.
Me and Dad and Travis all sit beside each other on the couch, and Bee-Bee looks at me, “Where’s your mom?”
“Shower,” I answer.
“Oh,” she mumbles, and her fingers curl around the folder she holds in her lap. She glances over her shoulder into the kitchen like she’s hoping Mom will come out. Or maybe she’s looking for Kevin.
“He’s still asleep,” I tell her.
She nods. “I was hoping to say this to everybody, but I’ll just go ahead. I wanted to apologize for any trouble I’ve caused your family. We’ve all known each other many, many years, and I value your friendship and your love.” She inhales a breath and the shakiness of it flutters nervously through the air. “I’ve been going through a few of Michelle’s things.”
I look over to Uncle Jerry and he’s still staring out the window, seemingly ignoring the whole conversation, but a muscle in his jaw tightens, and I know he’s not as unmoved as he wants to appear.
“I thought you all might like some of it.” She opens the folder on her lap and pulls out a picture. I recognize it. It’s a water color I did with Michelle a few months ago. She wanted to paint a field of butterflies and that construction paper with the purple and pink blobs was the result.
Bee-Bee hands it to me. “For you.”
Tears unexpectedly gather in my eyes, and I squint against the burn as I lean over and take the thick paper. Michelle’s giggle floats across my mind and I immediately see her little face with paint smeared under her chin and her fingertips tinted purple. We made a root beer float that same day and used two straws to share it.
Bee-Bee hands Travis a photo of him holding Michelle when she was just a baby with Kevin sitting beside them. “I found this in her baby album,” she says. “Remember how worried you were to hold her?”
With a sad smile, Travis nods. “I do.”
“Will you make a copy for Kevin?” she asks, and Travis agrees.
Next she reaches down to where a bag sits beside her feet and pulls out a tiny, handmade, wooden horse with Michelle scripted up its tail. She hands it to Dad. “You made that for her first birthday.”
Dad sniffs, and I look over to see tears floating in his own eyes. I wonder how our lives would have been different if we would’ve all known that Michelle was one of us.
From the folder, she slides another photo and hands it to Dad. “Will you give that to your father? It’s of him and Michelle feeding the goats.”
Dad nods, and next she pulls out a pair of crocheted booties woven with pink and yellow ribbon and hands those to me. “For your mom.”
Lastly, from the bag she takes out an onesie. Little football and baseballs cover the entire cotton outfit, and Bee-Bee turns to Uncle Jerry. “When she was born,” her voice breaks, “you gave me this and told me you wanted her to be a tomboy. That was her favorite onesie. She loved wearing it.”
With a trembling hand, she holds it out, but Uncle Jerry still doesn’t turn from the window. He just keeps gazing out at the driveway and over our yard. I hate this. I wish he wasn’t hurting so bad.
With a nod, she wipes her eyes and lays the onesie on the coffee table. “I’ll just leave it here for you.” She looks at my dad. “Thank you for welcoming me in.”
“Of course,” he quietly says.
Tires crunch up our driveway, and Uncle Jerry, still staring out the living room windows, shake hi
s head. “Crandall,” he says, and the air in the room thickens with dread.
We listen as Crandall opens and then closes his car door. As he walks across the gravel. As his feet hit the steps of our porch. As he crosses the wood planks. Then he’s there at our screen door, staring inside at all of us.
“Come in,” Dad says, and Crandall opens the door and steps inside.
His eyes take their time moving over each of us before landing on all the items that Bee-Bee brought over. I could be wrong, but he seems surprised, and a bit confused, by the scene. Good, I’m glad he saw this. He needs to know Bee-Bee doesn’t think we’re responsible.
“Quite a gathering you have on that road of yours,” Crandall says, and no one responds to that. I wonder if he knows I’m the leak.
Bee-Bee stands. “I’m going to go now. Thank you again.” She casts one last look at Uncle Jerry, and with her head down, she walks out our front door.
Crandall’s eyes touch on all the items she brought over. “What’s all this?”
“Mementos of Michelle,” Dad tells him. “How can we help you detective?”
He glances out the windows down to the County road. “Yes, quite the crowd you’ve drawn.” Then his gaze casually floats over to me. “You know, the thing about anonymous tips is that they can be hacked and IP addresses can be traced, given the right person to do the job.”
I swallow. But I was at the library when I did that.
“Of course public places keep records of who uses their computers,” he answers my unspoken thought. “Care to explain yourself?”
I look straight at my dad, and he merely looks back. “What is he talking about?” Dad asks and I hear the disappointment and frustration in his voice.
“I’m the reason why they’re all down there again. I leaked everything to the press,” I admit, and Dad just continues looking at me. “I’m sorry,” I apologize, though really I’m not. “At least with them lining our property, I feel safe.” I look at Crandall. “Because you’re not doing anything to help me, or any of us, feel safe. All you do is keep information from us, question us, and tell us you’re getting close. Everything I know, I’ve found out on my own.”
