A Blood of Killers

by Gerard Houarner

  Leo nodded but didn’t follow Tracey’s gaze to the bullet hole. He focused on her, afraid she’d realize she was telling a kind of story and stop. He worked hard at pushing away the image of Todd pleading with her for a story; an older Ray sitting at the kitchen table, entertaining their Tracey with tales of his exploits.

  “Michael took his time dropping by. Phoned a couple of times, didn’t say much except hi and how’re you doing. Never asked for stories. Never. After a while, he took to bringing over his latest lover. Like I was his mother, and he wanted to introduce them, get my approval. I liked the last one. He stayed with Michael to the end. Michael got to telling me stories, and his boyfriends, too. They liked talking about themselves. But their stories were always sad. Lost loves, betrayal, death. A couple of times, he and Ray were here at the same time. They went upstairs. I didn’t ask what they said to each other, and they never told me.”

  Upstairs. Bathroom. Tub. A pool of blood red water. Faucet dripping, water splashing with the monotony of a clock ticking in an empty house.

  “Why didn’t you invite me sooner?” Leo asked.

  “I was expecting you to invite yourself, like the others. But when you didn’t, I thought you might have taken it harder than the rest. Figured you needed time. So I left you alone. Had Ray do a little investigating. Found out where you lived. Nice wife and kid you had, Leo. The little girl was cute, though I bet you wish you had a boy, right? Wouldn’t that be something? If you’d had a boy, I might have written to you sooner. Maybe we could have arranged for me to watch him while you and your wife went out. Might have saved the marriage, the two of you having some time for yourselves. I might have even found new stories to tell.”

  Leo grunted. He was helpless to disagree. Her voice washed through him, her words sank into his mind like hooks. Dragging him into the darkness of a bullet hole in the wall, or a tub of bloody water slowly draining.

  “When there was no one left,” she continued, “I figured it was time to give you a little push. Figured that’s the way you wanted it, me and you, alone. What with the holidays, and you and me with no one else.”

  “I missed you,” Leo said. “Wanted you.” The words slipped away from him. They escaped from a past where he’d been locked in a room with three other boys, strangers, predators, for such a long time. The words blew out into the air like smoke from the fire that had consumed his teenage years in an upstate juvenile facility, separated from his childhood friends because of the nature of their communal crime. “But I was afraid,” he said, finally. Desperately.

  “I was here all the time.”

  But you don’t have any more stories, he wanted to say but didn’t. He was still afraid. More than ever. Bad words might drive her away. Now that he had her back, he couldn’t lose her again. Not without losing himself.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  Tracey considered him. Her eyes drew him, as they had done at the door. He fell into her, forgetting the dry, wrinkled flesh, the breath heavy and stale with coffee and cigarettes and last night’s vomit. Her voice insinuated itself into his thoughts, made them hers. There was nothing left for him but surrender.

  “You were the last back then, too,” she said. “The special one. The one with the patience. Well, you must want something from me after all this time. Don’t you, my little lion?”

  Stories. It was a time …

  But no. She had none left. He could not fail her, as the others had, by asking her. She had given him everything. It was time to give back.

  “You made me feel real when I was young,” he told her. “Let me feel real, again. Tell me what you want. Tell me what I can give you.”

  Tracey stood. Walked around to his side of the table. Put a hand on his shoulder. Enveloped him with the sour odor of her body.

  The warmth of her sex burned through the chair and into his back. “All I want is stories,” she said. “Tell me a story, my little lion. Tell me all the things you’ve done, all the things you’ve seen. Who you killed and who you saved. And all the things you’ve yet to do. Tell me, Leo. Tell me, now.”

  Leo stood up suddenly. Her hand fell away. He walked out of the kitchen, hesitated at the door to the house, then entered the gloomy living room. He looked out through the gaps in the venetian blinds. Clouds had come, masking the sun and its strong light. The street had turned grey. Plastic Santas and blinking lights struggled to raise holiday cheer in the emptiness.

  He searched for something to give her that would mean as much to her as what she had given him. It seemed important to give. It was the season, after all. “Tell me,” Tracey said, “whose blood was on the knife.”

  He turned, and found her laying flat on her back in the middle of the living room floor. The robe was gone. She was naked. Her body looked younger, shapelier, as a few pieces of dust rose where she had settled on the rug. Her hair surrounded her head like a halo. She stared at him, smiling.

  He was reminded of a landscape, with hills and valleys and hair for grass. Caves filled with dark mystery. Flesh like earth, eyes like pools. He smiled back.

  THE WAKING

  “What did you do?” Tracey asked. Breathless. Hanging on my every word. “Tell me again, what did you do?”

  She’d already made me tell the story back to her. Over and over. Had me write it down and give it to her on my way to school. Had me call her at home every night and repeat it. Her father always answered. He sounded faint, like he was half way across the world in a place where telephones were new. Then Tracey would come on, and the line would be full of life, and I’d perform. And she’d tell me how wonderful I was, how brave and strong, and how we would always run wild and free together.

  She told me to keep repeating the story to myself all the time, even when I was in class, or watching TV, or eating dinner. Remembering all the details. Living every moment. I became so involved in the story, I forgot chores, didn’t answer questions, even let my father get away with not giving me my allowance. My mom asked me if anything was wrong, and dad said I was turning into a space cadet. On the last day, my teacher sent a note home. He said I was unusually distracted. My parents made an appointment to go in to see the school counselor with me the following week. That night they went out. Dad had another one of those job parties to go to. A fundraiser. Big-time backers were going to be there. Might be his chance to get on a slate, or at least land a judgeship. Couldn’t say no. They argued about calling Tracey over. Mom said she needed time with her dad, the way things were going over there. Dad said Tracey needed a distraction, and maybe she could pull me down to earth. The other sitter they called couldn’t come, so that settled that. Tracey came over. They went out.

  Tracey trapped me easily. Hurt me. Made me beg to tell her what I’d done. What the story said I’d done. “Tell me how you did it,” she said. “Tell me whose blood it was.”

  I told the story like I believed it. Because I did.

  “I was going a little crazy. My friends, Ray, Mike and Todd, hadn’t been around much. They’d been acting creepy every time I ran into them. Talking about what happened to your mom and your two little sisters like it was no big deal. Like it was a joke. They kept saying how your mom and sisters deserved getting killed, because they’d made you unhappy. ’Cause your mom always made you take care of them when you weren’t taking care of us. And she never paid you or gave you any money. And you never got a chance to date, or go to parties, or anything.

  “You always said it was no big deal, taking care of your sisters. Sure, you complained once in a while. Sometimes I’d hear you talking on the phone to a girlfriend. But you said that wasn’t the real problem. There were other things going on. And then you’d get serious for a minute, and you’d get crying eyes, but only let one or two tears come down. And then you’d get over it and play with me, like you always did.

  “Then those accidents started happening. And my friends, they talked crazy. We all did, a lot of times. And did crazy things. But not like they were ta
lking. Like how easy it was to get a retard like your baby sister into that skinny old well past the park, where the developers keep wanting to build. Get her stuck head first, so she drowns in the water. Or how they could get your other little sister to come out to the park at night by leaving her note that was supposed to be from Hank in her class, who she really liked. A note with a couple of poems about ghosts and spirits and stupid things like that. Then jump her, and knock her out, and fill her full of liquor from a bottle they stole from the school engineer’s office, and douse her with the liquor real good, and then set her on fire. Like I’d done with that cat, only I used lighter fluid. Leave a couple of magic books about raising the dead around her, along with candles, and draw one of them witch pentagrams in white paint on the ground. So it’d look like she’d flipped and was trying to get her baby sister back from the dead, only she got drunk on the stuff she wanted to use in the ritual and passed out and spilled liquor on herself and fell on the candles around the pentagram and got herself killed. Stupid girl. Didn’t know the difference between blood and wine and liquor, much less that you weren’t supposed to get drunk on the stuff you give to the Devil to get your sister back. People could believe that about a kid. Especially one mixed up because her sister was dead.

  “And my friends said, after that, it’d be easy to get to your mom. She’d be half-gone, anyhow. Wouldn’t know what was going on, losing two kids one right after the other, like that. It wouldn’t take much to sneak in right after school, before you and your dad got home, and jump her, and fill her full of poison that acted so fast that by the time you did get home, it’d be too late. She’d be dead. And you’d be free.

  “It wouldn’t have bothered me so much, the way they were talking, if that wasn’t the way it happened. First your retard sister in the well, then your other sister burning, and finally your mom killing herself with poison. They knew everything about what happened to your sisters and mom. The last two, before anything happened.

  “So I had all these thoughts about you. And I was afraid something might happen to you. Maybe the guys wanted to keep going, take care of the whole family. I didn’t know. I know they really liked you, just like I did, but I didn’t know what they might do. Because, you know, if they did those other things to your mom and sisters, and weren’t just talking big, they really could be crazy enough to hurt you. And who was I going to tell? Who’d believe me? So I kept thinking and thinking. Until you came over one night, to look after me while my folks had to go out, and you started crying. Saying wild things about how you wished your mom and sisters hadn’t died. How it should have been your father. Because of the things he did to you. Things no one else knew about. Things you didn’t want to tell me when I asked about them.

  “So that night I came over to visit you. To make sure you were okay and see if I could do anything to make you feel better. Like you did for me when you came over after I’d done something wrong at school or around the house. And to make sure those other guys weren’t up to something around your house.

  “I snuck out after my mom and dad went to sleep. Ran to your house. A light was on upstairs, and downstairs. I didn’t see anybody else around. I snuck around to the back door, which I remembered you telling me your dad sometimes forgot to lock when he came back from messing around in the garage. It was open. I went in through the kitchen. It was dark, except for a little wall light in a socket. But I’d been over your house a few times. I knew my way around.

  “You were downstairs, in the living room. Sitting on the floor, arms on the sofa, head down on one of the cushions. Crying. The floor lamp was set on low, and shined on you like a spotlight. I got scared. I’d never seen you cry like that. Like you were emptying out everything in you, and there’d be nothing left when you finished. I kept looking at your shoulders, the way they went up and down as you let out these long, hurting sounds. I wanted to cry with you, but I thought you might get angry at me for sneaking into the house in the middle of the night. Suddenly I thought it wasn’t such a good idea to come over. I started to go back to the kitchen. Then I heard your father calling you.

  “His voice was real low. Like a dog grumbling. ‘Tracey,’ he said. His voice was cracking, too. And there was water running. Not fast, just a trickle. Water running into a tub.

  “And all you said was, ‘no.’ Shook your head, beat the sofa with your fist, and said, ‘no.’ Over and over again. That’s when I saw your shirt was ripped. And when you moved a little, I could see your pants weren’t zippered all the way up. Like something had already happened. And was going to happen again.

  “And then I got mad. Real mad. Burning hot mad like bacon sizzling in a pan, spitting stinging grease. Like the time that cat scratched me when I was petting it, and I lit it up. Or when Jeff told everybody how I cheated off him on a math test, and I stole his pen knife with his initials his folks got him and put it next to Frankie after I hit him in the head from behind with a brick.

  “I thought about all the things that’d happened to you, lately, and how much you were holding in, and how hurt you sounded. And that voice called you, again. ‘Tracey.’ Like a fairy tale dragon that hasn’t had enough to eat, and wants another bite out of the princess.

  “I went back into the kitchen. Took out the big cutting knife from the drawer where I’d seen your mother take it out when me and the rest of the guys were over for milk and your mom’s chocolate cake. Came back past the front door, to the stairs by the entrance to the living room. Went up. Slow. On my toes. You didn’t see me. The steps squeaked but you didn’t turn around. Just kept crying. Saying, ‘no.’

  “I heard water splashing, and your father calling again. The light was on in the bathroom, and the door was open. Your parents’ bedroom door was open across the way. The light was bright enough for me to see the mess inside. Piles of clothes, bags, leftover food. There was a funny odor coming from it, like something you’d find coming out of a locker where you’d kept sweaty T-shirts and sneakers too long. I stopped at the bathroom door. Your dad was in the tub. Back to the door. The water was steaming, and more hot water was trickling from the faucet at his feet. His dick was hard and big. He was stroking it with both hands. I came up on him. His head was leaning back against the wall. His eyes were closed. So he couldn’t see me in the mirror over the sink. He was smiling.

  “ ‘I knew you’d be back,’ he said. ‘It’s just the two of us. We have to take care of each other. Make sure we’re both all right. I’ll take care of you, Tracey, baby. Like I always have. But you have to take care of me, now. No more baby sisters. There’s only me.’

  “Right then, I knew what was more terrible than you having to take care of your sisters, and not being able to go to parties or do what you wanted. I knew what was more terrible than your mom ignoring you. I knew why you were hurting.

  “The burning mad in me made it so I couldn’t stand still. I had to move. Keep moving. I put my foot on the edge of the tub. My arm went up. Your dad opened his eyes. Opened his mouth, surprised. I didn’t even think about it. I chopped down hard with the knife between his legs. Your dad, he jumped up. Water went all over the place. And blood. He screamed. I swung the knife around with both hands and whacked at his head. I thought about that one a little bit as I did it. Wanted to get him right in his dirty mouth. I missed, hit his neck. Sunk it deep in his throat. He fell back. He wasn’t screaming no more. Left the knife in there. Opened the drain, because I didn’t want to look at all that bloody water. Then I heard you running up the stairs. You stumbled, fell. I ducked out, hid in your parents’ room. You went into the bathroom. Screamed. I snuck past. Saw you holding your head in your hands while you stood next to the tub. Looking down at your dad. In the water. In the bloody water.

  “I thought you’d be happy. But I was scared when I ran down the stairs. Pee’d in my pants. Left through the back door. And you were still screaming.”

  And when I finished, Tracey smiled a big, warm smile and clapped her hands.

  “ �
��You’re ready,’ she said. ‘Tonight we do it. It’s perfect. Your father really did have to go to a party for his job tonight. And my dad’ll be too drunk to tell us apart by the time you come over later. Everything fits, everything’s set. Now do it just like we said you would. And keep repeating the story to yourself. The story is all there is, right my little lion? Nothing else you do or see is real. Just the story. And then we’ll run wild and free.’ ”

  THE DREAM

  Cold lightning melting in hand, dribbling through fingers. Running between dark pools, bloody pools. Running, chasing word ribbons, letter strings, hornet syllables that sting. Running, until a hand clamps down on shoulder, pulls back, turns body. It’s me. Leo. Don’t be afraid.

  But … I’m Leo.

  Laughter. Face falls away. Underneath, the cartoon face mask of a girl comic strip character. Body hidden under a cloak.

  Boys running in a comic book. Through forests, and between houses. Fright in their eyes. Looking over their shoulders. Four. Three. No, four boys. Four. Word balloon looms over their heads.

  It was a time when sons killed their mothers and daughters murdered their mothers, and all the children ran wild and free.

  Cloaked figure among the trees points the way the boys must run. Cartoon mask fills the panel.

  Off panel, the cloak falls away.

  Hot burning weight presses down between the legs. Hot, but no pain. Sweetness. Lava blood flow pulses.