by Jack Castle
“Oh yeah? Well try them up your nose.” This came from Thomas who sat beside Missy. Despite their similar looks, he was the opposite of his sister in almost every way.
The siblings snorted and laughed and then unintentionally spat food on the table from doing both. After three years in New York, their laughter was music to Emma’s ears.
A thunderclap cut short the happy moment.
Uncle John’s fist slammed down so hard on the table it had made the chinaware jump. “You kids cut it out or so help me Lord, I’ll knock the crap out of both of you.” He took a napkin and dabbed at the sweat collecting on his massive bald cranium.
Everyone at the table immediately grew silent. Emma knew Uncle John would’ve never talked that way to Thomas and Missy if Paw were still alive. Paw fiercely loved the twins.
“You’re not my Paw,” Missy shot back. “And who asked you to come live here with us anyway?”
For a tense moment, it appeared as though Uncle John might rise from his chair and go after Missy, but then he seemed to remember Emma was at the table. He grabbed his beer and drowned the rage swelling behind those beady eyes of his.
“Go to your room young lady,” Mee-Maw commanded.
“Maw,” Missy whined. “I ain’t eaten nuthin’ since breakfast.”
“Well, you should-a-thought of that before you mouthed off to your uncle.”
Missy got up from her chair. She flashed Emma a look that was almost pleading, then pushed in her chair and headed for the stairs that led up to her bedroom. As she did so, Emma thought she saw Uncle John watch her walk away through half-slit eyes.
Emma dismissed Uncle John’s appreciative glances as her imagination. Besides, she had enough of her own problems. She still hadn’t told Mee-Maw what had really happened in New York.
“So, Emma, how long you going to be in town for? Long time I hope?”
“I don’t know yet, Mee-Maw.” Emma noticed every time Uncle John threw back his beer Thomas swiped another piece of chicken and wrapped it discretely into his shirt. “I’m hoping to visit for at least a little while.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like, child. Thomas already put your luggage in the downstairs guest room and I put fresh flannel sheets on the bed.”
Certain he had enough food for his sister, Thomas plotted his escape. “Uncle John, did you take a shower today? You’re awl’ kinds of smelly.”
Uncle John sat there dumbfounded. Before he could lather up into a frenzy Mee-Maw barked, “Thomas Michael Smith, what in the world has gotten into you? Go up to your room right now, young man.”
Emma was fairly certain Mee-Maw had seen what Thomas was up to and was merely assisting him with his escape.
“Good riddance,” Uncle John said to himself as he chewed another mouthful of food. “Kids ain’t got no respect for their elders no more,” he muttered between bites.
They finished their meal in silence.
Afterwards, Emma quietly placed her napkin on her plate and said, “You know Mee-Maw, it was a long trip. Would you mind if I got unpacked and took a shower … er, got cleaned up?”
“Not at all, child.” She stared at Emma sweetly. “It’s just so good to have you back home.”
Even though Mee-Maw was only her step mom, Emma loved her as much as any daughter could love a real mother. Emma’s birth mother had gone crazy shortly after she was born. No one ever told Emma what happened but she still had the gruesome scar across her back from the incident. On really hot days Emma’s scar would itch something fierce, just as it was itching furiously now. And ever since that day Emma’s birth mother had lived and died in the state insane asylum. For most of Emma’s childhood it was only she and Paw.
Mee-Maw had lived up the road with her folks and had been a close friend of the family ever since Emma was born. Even though they were always close, Paw remarried only after Emma’s birth mother had died in the asylum, which was the reason for the twelve years between Emma and the twins. Even though she never really knew her birth mother she liked to think she would have approved of Mee-Maw.
“Sure, sure. Go on,” Uncle John said magnanimously, as though it were he who had built the house they were living in with his own two hands and not his brother, “Don’t worry about us. Sides, more for me.” And with that said, he reached for another helping of Mee-Maw’s homemade apple pie.
“Excuse me,” Emma replied politely, her chair scraping the floor as she gruffly pushed it back from the table.
As she left the kitchen and entered the guest room down the hall, she heard her Uncle say, “Wha-a-a-t-t-t? Whadda I say?”
*****
Retreating to the guest bedroom, and sure no one was watching, Emma removed a small toiletry kit hidden deep within the confines of her luggage.
God, this is so much harder than I thought.
Even the sound of the bag’s zipper opening made her bite down on her lower lip with anticipation and anxiety. Double-checking to see she was still alone and the door was locked she removed the needle within. She put her bare foot up on the bed and carefully placed the needle between her toes. It wouldn’t have done for a dancer with the New York City Ballet to have track marks on her legs or arms.
This will be the last time. God, I swear it. Please. I’m begging you.
Emma was convinced it wasn’t her fault. After all, she wasn’t some drugged-out- prostitute. With a lot of hard work and dedication, she had gotten everything she ever wanted by the age of 23. She had a great job working as a ballet dancer with the New York City Ballet and her own apartment. She even had a great boyfriend, a handsome longshoreman on the docks by day, a tortured artist by night.
But then came the motorcycle crash. Mitchell had dumped his bike at an intersection and Emma got banged up pretty badly in the fall. The doctor had prescribed pain medication for her bruised ribs, broken wrist, and dislocated shoulder. At one-hundred-and-ten pounds, it didn’t take much to get hooked. Lord, she had never slept so soundly in her life. When the doctor’s prescriptions ran out, a dancer friend, and sub in the show, introduced her to heroin. Before long, she had slept through enough rehearsals to lose her job. It was only afterwards she found out her dancer “friend” didn’t even use drugs and took over Emma’s now available full-time contract.
Emma still didn’t know how she was going to tell Mee-Maw. It would break her heart. She had been so proud. But knowing Mee-Maw, she was probably already well aware.
This will be the last time. I’ll get clean, put on a few healthy pounds, then go back out there and start auditioning again.
As the shiny needle moved between her painted toes, blue nail polish, what was I thinking, the harbinger of overflowing joy only a scant inch away… A shocking image appeared.
Instead of a needle she found herself holding a slick-skinned, cold to the touch, black snake! She backed into the dresser behind her — hard. A picture frame and other knick-knacks atop the dresser fell onto the floor. Moving in swift bursts, the snake coiled itself up her arm, its forked tongue stabbing in and out at her. Emma didn’t know what kind of snake it was, she didn’t know about such things, but she instinctively knew it was poisonous. The black snake with red eyes — do snakes have red eyes?—, reared back its head and unsheathed long curved venomous fangs. Before she could stop it, the snake clamped down onto the flesh of her exposed forearm.
Eyes clenched, Emma’s body immediately convulsed from the stabbing puncture wounds.
A picture frame crashed to the floor and caused her eyes to open.
The snake was gone. She immediately scanned her forearm: No bite marks. Frantically she lifted each foot, checking the floor and beneath the bed: No snake to be found, anywhere.
That’s weird. I’ve never hallucinated before using … and never so real.
It took some time but eventually Emma found the dropped syringe on
the floor. It had rolled under the night table. Disturbed, but not deterred, she placed her foot back on the bed and moved the needle toward its mark once more. Hesitation. Last time; I swear it.
A child screamed. It was Thomas. But Tonka-tough-Thomas never screamed. Emma hid the needle back in her suitcase, bounded through the door and ran for the stairwell. One wouldn’t know she was a ballet dancer by the way her feet thudded upon the stairs.
“Sissy’s dead. Sissy’s dead,” Thomas kept shouting at the open doorway to the bathroom. He hadn’t called his twin sister Sissy in years.
The light was on in the bathroom and the shower curtain had been pulled back. Emma stood frozen with disbelief. Her little sister was hanging from the shower nozzle by a severed vacuum cord wrapped around her tiny neck.
Uncle John and Mee-Maw arrived and pushed past her. They managed to free Missy from her self-made noose and drag her out of the tub. As they did, Emma heard the sound of Missy’s bare skin rubbing on the dry ceramic. It was a sound she would forever associate with the gruesome sight of her little sister hanging in the shower.
“Call 911, call 911!” Uncle John kept yelling, clutching her naked body against his chest.
“Don’t you touch her!” Mee-Maw screamed. “This is all your fault.” Mee-Maw pounded her fist on Uncle John’s back.
“Damn it woman, get out of the way,” John roared back.
As Uncle John carried Missy’s body out of the bathroom, a crumpled piece of paper fell from her small, lifeless fingers.
It seemed to float to the floor in slow motion. Working in New York, Emma had learned how movie cameras made things appear in slow motion. By filming double the amount of frames in a scene, the characters appeared to be moving in slow motion when played back. This was the same for the human body. The faster the heartbeat, the more snapshots the eyes sent to the brain. Hence, fast heartbeat equates to seeing things in slow motion. But she had never experienced the phenomenon first hand before.
Emma felt the crumpled paper in her hand. She must have picked it up without realizing it. Scribbled writing lay within its edges. What did it say? Would she even want to read it? Would it explain why her sister felt compelled to do such a horrible, horrible thing?
Emma, oh Emma, such a pretty girl
Don’t cry for me.
For we will meet again,
In HavenPort Alaska
And live for all of eternity—
Oh, and one more thing…
Kill Uncle John for me.
What a horribly strange thing for Missy to write. Kill Uncle John?
Banshees, in the form of police sirens, wailed in the distance. Emma heard the porch door straining open as Uncle John carried Missy outside to greet the paramedics who would cart her little sister away. Downstairs, Mee-Maw continued to wail. She would forever be inconsolable.
Emma heard Tonka-tough-Thomas sobbing in the hall. She finally managed to shuffle out the bathroom and found him sitting with his knees drawn up, and his hands covering his face. Emma slid her back down the wall to sit beside him. She’d sit with him for hours — if that’s what it took. When she put an arm around him, he buried his face in her chest, his tears soaking her shirt.
Emma did these things on autopilot, for her brain was occupied with only two thoughts.
The first was HavenPort, Alaska. Was it even a real place? She certainly had never heard of it and she didn’t recall Missy ever mentioning it.
Her second thought was a much simpler one: Where did Mee-Maw keep Paw’s double-barreled shotgun?
Chapter 4
Jeb Sutton
“Sheriff Jeb Sutton,” the older man said in response to Hank’s greeting, his hand clutching Hank’s. “Well, I guess now that you’re here, it’s just Jeb.”
When Hank McCarthy had walked into the HavenPort sheriff’s office he’d found the former sheriff sitting in a chair behind his desk even though it was early enough to still be dark outside.
Jeb had the height and build of a former WWF wrestler who had let himself go about a decade ago. He was overweight, sported a bushy walrus mustache and had a grey comb-over that barely covered his baldness. His face and neck were unshaven by several days and when he spoke he revealed a mouth full of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. This was a man who stopped caring about his job, his life, and personal hygiene a long time ago.
Jeb’s office reflected a different cop, however. A well-maintained flag stood in one corner and on the wall was a photo of Jeb as a young Marine sporting an impressive collection of awards. There were also dozens of certifications and commendations in glossy black and white frames. Another frame featured a newspaper clipping with Jeb’s photo, describing how he had saved several children who had fallen into the creek after the ice cracked beneath their feet. Comparing the numerous awards with the wreck of the man before him, Hank found himself wondering, What the hell happened to this guy?
“You were a cop, right? Down in Wyoming or sumthin’?” Jeb asked, interrupting Hank’s thoughts.
“Uh, Deputy Sheriff,” Hank answered.
“Why’d you leave? I mean, I hear Wyoming’s nice enough.”
A glaring blank sheet of paper formed in Hank’s head whenever he thought about his last day in Wyoming. He remembered heading out of town with his family but everything after that, right up to their arrival to HavenPort, was one big blank. Hank had decided not to reveal his lack of memory to his wife, Sarah. In some ways, she was as tough as any Pioneer woman back in the day. But Sarah’s tenacity depended on him being the proverbial rock in the storm. Besides, whenever he reached for some other bit of information, the memories were there. He perfectly remembered his childhood and growing up on his Uncle’s ranch in Wyoming. Same with his eight year stint in the military. His mind swam back to the scene before him and he finally answered, “Wife and I just needed a change of scenery I guess.”
Jeb nodded then asked, “You and your family get settled in okay?”
Settled in? That was a big joke. The last five days had been more like a test of survival for he and his family. On the first night the furnace went out and they all had to curl up by an old space heater for warmth. They’d also had to keep all the faucets in the house running to prevent the pipes from freezing. After spending the majority of the second day putting in the new furnace, he discovered a patch of shingles had blown off the roof. Hank knew if he didn’t tack down some new ones before winter there’d be some serious structural damage. This was all on top of the movers delivering what seemed like the five thousand boxes Sarah had packed from their old home.
Despite all these hardships, Hank turned away from Jeb’s photo and simply answered, “Yeah, we’re just fine. Thanks for asking.”
Sheriff Sutton seemed to reflect on this for a moment. It was a small town and most likely the friendly, overly talkative clerk at the hardware store had probably shared the McCarthy’s household difficulties with everyone. Instead of mentioning this, old Jeb just nodded his head again and reached into his desk. He slowly removed a gold badge and a heavy revolver in a civilian carry holster from one of the drawers and shoved it towards him.
“So I reckon these are yours now.”
Hank inspected the firearm. It was a .44 Taurus. He preferred auto pistols but he certainly didn’t mind the stopping power of the forty-four. It’s one thing to kill a suspect running at you with a knife, as any gun will kill a man eventually, but what’s more important is stopping that threat dead in his tracks. Furthermore, the heavy-duty pistol was a lot better protection from a bear. The only con was you had to keep in mind the over penetration factor and be mindful of not hitting innocents in the next room.
Hank expertly hit the ejector with his thumb and a fully loaded cylinder swung out of the frame. The bullets had dust on them. He dipped his pinky in the action and when he pulled it out again his finger was covered in grime.
&nb
sp; Jeb must have seen Hank’s dirty pinky and disapproving frown because he said with a hint of embarrassment, “Yeah, you might want to clean that.”
Hank expertly flipped the cylinder closed, holstered the pistol and clipped both it and the badge to his belt. When he lifted his gaze he noticed a stairwell at the back of the office. A homemade sign over the doorframe read, “Captain’s Nest”. Hank recalled there was a little apartment over the sheriff’s office as part of the incentive package.
Jeb saw him staring at the stairs. “Oh yeah. I uh, didn’t expect you to arrive for another week but don’t worry, I can be packed up and out of your way by the end of the day.”
“You gotta place to stay yet?” Hank asked.
Jeb’s face turned sour but the old sheriff put on a brave one and answered, “I got friends with comfortable couches.”
“Take your time. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the sheriff until next week. Sarah and I only came in early to beat the first snowfall … and get the house in order.”
Where’d that come from? Hank felt as though the thought had been typed into his brain. Maybe that’s how memory comes back when you’ve lost it. Jeb didn’t seem to hear him. His attention was lost in an old photograph of himself displayed on the wall. It showed a younger version of him in front of the station. “Hard to believe I been sheriff of this here town for close to thirty years.” The older man’s eyes then lifted and seemed to size Hank up in a glance, “Wasn’t much older than you when I came to HavenPort just after my stint in the corps.”
“You gonna be all right?” Hank asked with genuine concern. Maybe at one time the old boy was a pretty good cop.
“Heck, son. Don’t worry about me.” Jeb faltered, then slid open a drawer and pulled out a fireman’s helmet with the word “Chief” on it. He slapped the helmet on his head and answered with a big Texas grin, “Hell, I’m still the Fire Chief.”
