by Jeff Vrolyks
I stood over Holly. Blood formed a small puddle under Peaches mouth, stirring up a very old memory. The animal was lying on concrete, but I saw it as asphalt. We were in Sacramento, but my mind was in Rio Linda. History was repeating itself a decade later. Chesterton.
Chesterton was my childhood cat. When my mother passed away, I wasn’t the only one who lost his mother that day. Chesterton suffered just as hard in his own way. I wasn’t a cat person and deplored my mother’s decision to make a pet of the tabby cat in lieu of a dog, though I was too young to remember when it happened. He was a kitten when I was a pup, making him my age. The accident left Chesterton and me to face an orphan’s uncertainty together. The parents of my friend Clyde took me in, not keen on the cat idea; however, they were keen on helping a young boy get through a world turned upside down. It was a new and foreign house to Chesterton and me. Of the six people residing there, I was the only one who disliked cats. The other five hated cats, and Chesterton was made well aware of that on day one.
With my mother alive, Chesterton respected my right to abstain from loving him. And why shouldn’t he? He was given canned food, treats, even filtered water, for Pete’s sake. He was allotted space on Mom’s bed that he could call his own, complete with a carpeted step-ladder leading up to it so he didn’t have to impact his joints jumping down. And most importantly he received all the attention he could ask for from Mom. We had a mutual respect for each other, but it never progressed into a friendship until Mom died.
When we moved into Clyde’s, Chesterton wandered around the large house, not knowing where to go and who might be a potential friend. He gave everyone in the house a chance at friendship, received nothing but disinterest and even contempt. My quarters consisted of a mattress in the corner of Clyde’s bedroom.
One day, Chesterton peeked his head in the doorway of the bedroom and saw me lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling with a heavy heart. Clyde gave him the usual Scram! With his head hung low and sorrowful eyes, Chesterton appealed to my heart, reflecting my own emotions. At least I was in the presence of people who enjoyed me, or at least pretended to; Chesterton went from having it all to being neglected and resented by a house-full of strangers.
As my Mom had once done, I allotted a corner of my mattress for Chesterton to call his own, by virtue of scooting over and patting said corner. He came in and jumped on my bed, coiled up in the smallest corner he could make due with. I touched him and he flinched. He didn’t anticipate me acknowledging him and surely didn’t think I’d show him kindness, let alone love. In came the guilt and self loathing, that I could be so selfish and uncaring. The tide of my heart turned at that moment. He was reborn in my eyes, and I became to him what our mother had been to us.
Later that year I was walking home from the school bus-stop when I noticed from afar that Chesterton was on the front porch. He was strictly an indoor cat. Clyde’s little brother hadn’t closed the back door firmly enough and the wind had opened it. Chesterton had gotten out. I was uncomfortable with him being so close to an active street. I was still a good distance away, across the street, when I shouted at him to go inside the house, and gestured it as well, as if a cat could understand either. It was a mistake that would come to haunt me. I was warning him of danger, which he interpreted as Come here and I’ll give you pets. Between our misunderstanding drove a station wagon.
If I hadn’t befriended Chesterton, he wouldn’t have cared when I called for him across the street. When nobody cared that he existed, his existence was secure; he was safe in his miserable solitude. My love for him may have been his saving grace, but ultimately it was his demise.
With love comes risk. It was a life lesson, a hardship that I grew from. A hardship that I needed to grow from, as it would prepare me for the future. History frequently repeats itself, and next time it might be more than a cat. And more than a couple of wolves. It might be family, loved ones.
Kloss returned to the garage a short while later without Pea Willy. He wanted to have a meeting with us inside right away.
We sat at the long dining room table, under the light of the chandelier—Sue Ellen, with sleep in her eyes, not withstanding. Holly was no longer crying. She had metamorphosed into somewhat of a mannequin with a wrecked countenance. My consolation went ignored—I think, I couldn’t tell. Pea Willy was last to arrive, and sat at the far end of the table. He was pallid, hands tremulous, eyes shifty.
The agenda of the meeting was more serious than Kloss had made it out to be. Much more serious. All that was missing was the Enola Gay to drop the atomic payload of bad news on us. Contrary to our visceral reaction that Pea Willy had for some reason shot and killed the wolves, what or whom he had shot were not wolves but instead two people, just outside the property line.
One of the deceased was an unknown woman, middle-aged and without I.D. The other victim was infinitely more perturbing to Kloss: a close friend and lead equipment manager of VonFurenz—Keith, his main roadie for better than two years. Both had been armed with shotguns and managed to shoot the wolves before Pea Willy shot them. To the minor relief of Pea Willy, Kloss judged that at least one of the two deceased had suffered potentially fatal bite wounds prior to the gunshots. Jack and Peaches had tore large chunks out of Keith and unnamed lady before Pea Willy fired a single bullet into either of them.
“There are no words to describe how awful I feel,” Pea Willy said. “But you have to understand that the lady was raising her gun to me when I… did what I did. Shooting her was the only way to preserve my life. The other had his gun stripped away by one of the wolves, but was reaching for it when I fired at him. I take full responsibility for what I did.”
“Guys, here’s the deal,” Kloss said. “I only have two neighbors, and I know one of them personally—he’s out of state with his family. The other I don’t know as well, but he’s a businessman and I know he travels often. His house is a good deal away and I don’t know if he or his family heard the gunfire, but the cops still haven’t shown up so I’m thinking they didn’t.
“I’ll be the first to say that I don’t want to hide this from the police, and I’m scared to death suggesting we do. But you have to believe me when I say that if we do involve the police, Holly will be in danger. I know it sounds foolish, but hear me out. The other day a woman told me to escort Holly out of the hospital or she would be stabbed to death. I won’t get into why I believed her, but I did. And thank God I did, because the lady was right. Serena was on her way to Holly’s room to do just that. This lady has earned my trust. Her explicit warning to me was to avoid the police, that Holly would be in the danger if I didn’t. I’m not sure if she meant for us to avoid them only during the hospital incident, or to avoid them for the foreseeable future, but do I want to take that chance? Fucking-A, I don’t. If involving the police exposes her to some grave danger, it would have to mean that there is someone or maybe multiple people in the police force who wish her the same fate as did Keith and that dead bitch. I know it sounds like paranoid bullshit, but I think it’s real. It isn’t just Serena, either. The night of the fire two boys were attacked near Holly’s house. One of the two boys was killed by a wolf. These boys were responsible for the fire that might have killed Holly and Ali. I don’t know if it was purposely started, I firmly believe the boy whom I spoke to had no idea there was a fire, but the boy the wolf or wolves killed, I don’t know what his intentions were. That these good-natured wolves killed the boy suggests that he very well may have started the fire on purpose. And if so, maybe the reason for the fire was to kill Holly and have it look like an accident. This is just theory, conjecture.
“Then there is Keith Sorenson, my friend and roadie. He is now under a tarp in the garage. He was armed and I have no doubt he was on his way to find Holly. It fits with the ongoing theme over the last week. Whatever the reason why this is happening, and why it is happening to Holly, it’s plainly obvious that it is happening.
“We’ve been blessed with the help of this wo
man, the woman Holly refers to as Mrs. Wheels. And the wolves, they have been nothing short of a miracle. Pea Willy wouldn’t have been able to stop the two people alone: he would have been the first of us to be shot, to be murdered. Who knows how far they would have gotten, but it would’ve been a fucking massacre, I’m sure. The seven of us sitting here might instead be only a few.
“So I hope you all see where I am with this. Until this thing plays itself out or until we know more, there are certain measures we should take. And not involving the police is one of them. But I’m not going to impose this enormous decision on everyone. We’re going to decide as a group.”
The morning sun was just beyond the horizon, bringing with it the promise of the longest day of our lives. We not only had a lot on our plate but there were some rotten items on said plates. We had debated the recourse for the lady and Keith, now lying under a tarp in the garage, and what we agreed upon sat in our stomachs like twenty-years-to-life. As persuasive as Kloss was in building a case for a mafia style disposal of the two bodies and taking the secret to the grave with us, we were split on the decision. None of us wanted to endanger Holly by involving the police, but we couldn’t be sure that Mrs. Wheels meant to avoid the authorities from the day at the hospital forward. Some of us were of the opinion that she was only regarding the Serena incident. If we misinterpreted what she had said, the consequence might mean prison-time for each of us for not reporting the deaths. And if we were in prison, might Holly be in danger there? If we couldn’t trust the police, how could we trust prisoners? And prison guards?
Leading the charge to involve the cops was Alison, and she quickly had Mike’s support. To everyone’s surprise Holly agreed with Alison. She strongly believed that we would end up in prison otherwise, and she stressed that if she went to prison she would be an easy target. Pea Willy had no desire to stand trial for murder, even though his argument of self-defense would be strong. He wasn’t blind to the many people serving life sentences who are innocent. And since the OJ Simpson trial, his faith in the judicial system had been further injured. If one man can buy counsel to ensure his freedom, can another buy counsel to ensure Pea Willy’s sentencing?—say, the families of the two deceased he shot? To Holly’s dismay, I sided with Kloss and Pea Willy. I put my faith in Wheels, and thought that if there were bad cops a few days ago during the Serena fiasco, why shouldn’t there continue to be bad cops today?
Sue Ellen had deferred her vote until the end, hoping her decision wouldn’t matter either way. It turned out to be the deciding vote.
“Come on, Sue Ellen,” Kloss coaxed, “you have to side with your husband. Do you want him on trial for murder?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Ali urged. “Listen to your heart.”
Sue Ellen reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a piece of paper that was folded several times over into a little square. Kloss raised a brow at Pea Willy. Pea Willy shrugged. As she unfolded it, she said, “I didn’t want the outcome of this hangin’ over me, but it looks like I don’t have a choice.” She cleared her throat. “I would vote for doin’ things legally—”
“Yes!” Alison cheered “Good—”
“Ah-ah-ah!” Kloss interposed enthusiastically. “ I believe she said would. Finish your thought, sweetheart. Don’t let Alison bully you.”
“I would side with you, dear,” she directed at Alison, “but because of this, I don’t think I should.” The curiosity in the room was so thick you could bury the two dead bodies in it. She read:
“A phone call made will dig Holly’s grave. Kevin knows the way.”
Everyone but Sue Ellen stared at me.
Sue Ellen added, “I awoke to finger-tapping on my shoulder. I thought it was Pea Willy but when I rolled over he wasn’t there. Nobody was there. But this note was.”
I was disappointed that Sue Ellen lacked the insight that she displayed during our shared moment in the RV. She had no more sense of direction than had I. Sadly, what had happened was a dream. But it was so real! And what is more, my arm, bandaged and encased in a sling, was without pain. I couldn’t explain that any other way. I had helped Kloss carry the wolves, and they weighed in excess of a hundred pounds; I had involved my right arm mindlessly and there were no consequences.
“Don’t look at me!” I said. “I don’t know the way! But I do think Sue Ellen has a point and we shouldn’t call the police. Or anyone, for that matter.”
“Who the heck wrote the note?” Mike said.
“Y’all are goin’ to think I’m nuts,” Sue Ellen said. “I think I wrote it. It’s in my handwriting. Isn’t it, hun?” She handed Pea Willy the note. He nodded in agreement. “I know how it must sound, but what else is there? None of you were inside the RV, and I know my own handwriting.”
“You’re not nuts,” I said. “But you’re wrong about nobody else being in the RV.”
I proceeded relating to them my experience in the RV as I removed the sling from my arm and unraveled the bandages, with marginal confidence that I would find my arm healed. Pea Willy added to what I said, recalling what Sue Ellen had ordered him to do as she was asleep, or whatever she was. All eyes were on my bare arm. My flesh was sweaty and compressed, just as it had been in the RV. I extended my arm at length, and as predicted, it had mended.
It was now unanimous. The cops were not going to be involved. The bodies would remain under a tarp in the garage until we came up with a plan. The two wolves were under a blanket next to the tarp, and we didn’t know what we’d do with them, but we all agreed they deserved a better burial than the two assholes who killed them.
Time was of the essence. At one o’clock in the afternoon Kloss was to be hosting a barbecue and a live recording which had sounded like a great idea when it was presented. Now it was a huge thorn in our asses. My simple mind suggested that Kloss cancel. Kloss recited legal jargon that was in place between him and Dense Records for the recording. He could and would beg them for a postponement of the event, but they would explain how resources were already in place for it to move forward—including equipment vans with crews already on their way—and agreements and deadlines with Dense Records’ enormously powerful parent company, Sony. Mitigating the potential damage could include uninviting the hundred-plus people that had RSVP’d (most of whom were friends of Kloss), but the time it would take to contact and give them an explanation that didn’t sound like complete bullshit would be staggering.
The problems didn’t end there. The drummer who agreed to play this afternoon was his roadie Keith, the same guy assuming garage temperature. VonFurenz’ drummer Randall was currently in France, enjoying some time away before the big tour. Kloss knew a guy who owned a set of conga drums and was excellent with them, and he thought that would be a good solution, but that was beside the point. Keith was scheduled to play the drums in less than twelve hours and his crew would scratch their heads when he didn’t show up. It wouldn’t be long before inquisitions into his whereabouts extended to the Boys in Blue. The situation was perhaps manageable, but no matter how he carved it, it was still a shit turkey.
There were many things for Kloss to do before the engagement: going through his surveillance tapes and destroying any indictable footage; contacting the Sacramento Police Department and retracting his request of officers to aid in security; calling his good friend Diggs and asking him to ramp up security, with some special requests added; and most important, dealing with the bodies.
Kloss would also contact one of his seedier friends. A trustworthy friend. A friend he had dirt on, therefore bringing mutually assured destruction to both of them should secrets leak out. This friend had an uncanny talent for making things disappear, permanently. He had little doubt that he could dispose of the bodies and they would never be found, but he didn’t want to take the risk. The idea of his freedom lying in the hands of someone else was unnerving, to say the least. But there was a car parked by his house which belonged to the dead woman—the registration identified the woman as B
ertha Potts—and it needed to vanish before it could be traced back to her, a soon-to-be missing person. Kloss had employed the same gentleman a few days earlier to dispose of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle.
It was nearly four A.M. when our meeting came to an end. We thought it was best to try to get some sleep before the big day, if that was at all possible. Kloss had no intention of sleeping. He had too many things to do. He concluded that he would not be able to devise a suitable burial plan and then carry it out before the security detail arrived at ten A.M. There were too many other things to be done first, and the bodies weren’t going to get up and walk away. He would leave them under the tarp in the locked and guarded garage during the event. And that evening, under the cover of night, he would bury them with the help of Pea Willy and me.
I had a feeling Holly wouldn’t sleep. Not with the deaths of her two new pets fresh in her mind. We gave it a try anyway. I wrapped my arm around her and told her how much I loved her. I listened to her cry so despairingly, really doing a number on my heart-strings. I had no intention of saying anything further on the subject of wolves, but from under the soil of my conscious mind sprouted a seedling that had been planted earlier that night in the RV. “Seraphy thought that Jill was a cute name for her, but she could have done without Humperdinck.”
Holly stopped crying and looked over at me.
“She wanted me to tell you not to be sad for Jack and Peaches. You’ll see them again someday, alive.”
Chapter 39
By eleven the estate’s front gate was lining up with incoming guests and equipment vans. Each member of the assembled twelve-man security team was either a friend of Kloss or trusted associate of Diggs.
