by Catie Rhodes
3
I heard the bass buzzing and thumping as soon as I turned off Farm Road 4077 into Memaw’s driveway. The music couldn’t have been louder at a full-out concert. My hands tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. My brazen, silicone-stuffed turd of a cousin cared not a whit about other people’s feelings. Not for the first time, I questioned Rae’s end goal. Did she aim to drive Memaw and me off the property and have the whole spread for herself? Or did she have no purpose and simply delight in torturing others? If only I could figure out what she wanted, I could negotiate with her.
As my car moved under the row of towering pine trees lining Memaw’s driveway, sunlight and shadow strobed over my face. The sky had already darkened from the white hue it carried in summer to the blue topaz of fall. Had Rae’s drama not interfered, I’d have spent this exquisite day outside doing chores, feeling the sun on my face and the cool wind at my back. Another day ruined, courtesy of Miss Trouble Maker. Fun, fun, fun.
I parked my vintage Nova under the open-air carport and leaned my head on the steering wheel. Patience. No telling what Rae endured over the course of her childhood or in the years I lost contact with her, and how it affected her. I climbed out of my car and trekked across the pasture to the trailer.
Rae’s car sat in front with all four doors open, the largest portable stereo in the world. Surprisingly, hers was the only car out there. She usually entertained a bevy of beer-drinking, thirty-year-old teenagers on Sundays. I had expected her to embarrass me before granting me an audience. At close range, the music vibrated the dirt under my work boots and ground out any sympathy for my cousin. This sucks. It sucks to play warden. It sucks that she can’t behave. I leaned into the car and turned off the eardrum-shattering noise.
The sudden silence, though glorious at first, soon made my skin crawl. No birds chirped in the woods. No frogs hollered for rain. No crickets hummed in the grass. It was too quiet.
“Rae?” I called her name just to break that awful, dead silence. The wooden steps on the deck Chase built her a few months earlier squealed under my feet as I climbed them. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose. Something felt wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. I stopped at the far edge of the wooden platform. “It’s Peri Jean.”
No answer. Rae never quit making some kind of noise. She didn’t seem comfortable without it. Surely, she realized her music had been cut off. That alone should have brought her raging out of her nest.
A branch popped in the woods behind the trailer. I jumped, heart racing with the urge to run. This was silly. I grew up in these woods, knew them like the back of my hand. The Palmore ghosts were gone until dark. An animal made the noise. The woods were full of animals, and they meant no harm.
Despite my pep talk, I cringed at each squeak from the unsteady wooden deck as I crossed it. Its piercing bleats shattered the stillness and jangled my nerves. Raising one shaking fist, I beat on the flimsy door. The noise boomed through the trailer and an awful silence followed.
“Rae?” My voice sounded high and childish. Scared. I bet Rae is crouching on the other side of that door laughing at me. My fear mixed with irritation and came out pissed off.
I knocked harder, rattling the small dwelling. “I know you’re in there!” I hollered at the door, bracing for Rae to slam it open in my face. “Get out here now or I’m not doing a damned thing for you.”
A squirrel chuffed curses at me for making so much racket. Other than that, my rage-infused words got no answer.
“Rae, come on.” I gave the door three hard raps, bouncing it in its frame. What happened next was not on purpose. Really. When my hand came down, I bumped the doorknob. The door opened a crack. Without thinking, I swung the door all the way open, ready to give Rae the what-for.
My mind registered the red goop covering everything but quickly explained it away. Maybe she spilled some food. Red stains covered the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. A still form lay on the little foldout table. Maybe a pile of clothes.
Then, a drop of blood slid off the edge of the table, grew pregnant, and plopped onto the floor. Under the table was a pool of blood from which smaller trails of blood ran. A low hum filled my head. My stomach lurched and prepared to upend its contents. I bailed off the deck and heaved into the bushes at the tree line. Finished, I dragged a hand over my mouth. My body quaked with unspent fear.
What the hell had I just seen? A dead person. Sweat broke out all over my body. That thing on the table couldn’t be my cousin. It didn’t even look human. Had she overdosed? Or hurt herself? What if she needed help? Steeling myself, I staggered back to the trailer’s open door.
My shock turned to grim realism as I took in the form on the table. I recognized the toe ring Rae always wore in the hazy light. That meant the bloody mess spread out on the table was my cousin. I forced myself to look at her face. Eyes wide, her mouth hung open in either a silent scream or a final gasp. Rae’s cellphone blared its annoying ring tone.
It broke me out of the trance. Someone did this to her. I needed to call 911. I didn’t want to be alone with my cousin’s corpse. Through my shock, I realized I couldn’t shield Memaw from this horror. I need to get the sheriff’s office out here so Memaw doesn’t see Rae like this. But I needed to get away from the sight of Rae on that table before I did anything else. I stepped back out onto the wooden deck and took out my cellphone. Rae’s phone stopped ringing.
A branch cracked, this time nearer the trailer. Leaves rustled behind me. My breath caught in my throat. Somebody was with me. The killer. My throat closed. Fight or flight, my mind chanted idiotically. I spun around with my fists up.
The man in green came at me fast, charging up the wooden steps to join me on the deck. I threw a sloppy roundhouse. My weak punch hit him in the shoulder and bounced off. My knees went loose and liquid. They weren’t going to hold me up long enough to fight off my cousin’s killer.
My horrified mind took in flashes of detail. Camo hunting mask. Camo coveralls. Camo boots. Bigger than me.
I staggered and swung my fist again. The punch connected with his middle. Years of schoolyard fights paid off. He let out a pained grunt. I reared back again, leaving my torso unprotected.
He punched me in the gut and that was it. The air whooshed out my lungs. Time stopped. The slam of my pounding heart filled my head. Crows cawed in the distance. The pine trees around me blurred.
My mind kept taking little pictures. Latex gloves. He wore latex gloves. Oh, no. I knew why people wore those. The masked man took a step toward me. Long and lean with narrow shoulders like a woman’s. Long hands and long feet. He could have been a tall woman if it hadn’t been for the way he walked. Women don’t walk like that.
My legs wouldn’t work, and my empty lungs screamed for air. I flopped around uselessly until he reached me.
The masked man leaned over me and doubled up his fist. The latex glove squeaked as it rubbed against itself. Balloons. The sound reminded me of balloons. The fist hurtled toward me in slow motion.
Poor Memaw. She would find both her granddaughters dead. I didn’t want her to see that. The punch connected with my face, shattering my thought process. I flew off the deck and heard the thud as my body hit the dirt. The world jumped track, and I floated into a haze of oblivion.
My vision slowly came into blurry focus. My head pounded, and I tasted blood. I whimpered. Footsteps crunched through the grass and leaves toward me. I braced myself to endure whatever the future held.
An indistinct face loomed over mine. I blinked hard. Memaw’s face, red from crying, snapped into focus. I reached out to touch her, and she snatched my hand, grinding the bones together.
“Oh, thank God. You’re gonna live. I was afraid they’d got you, too.” Memaw’s voice sounded thick and stuffy with her tears. I realized with a jolt of horror she must have seen Rae. Of course she did. I never called 911 because that man hit me. No doubt, Memaw came home from church and found us both. She pulled a cloth
handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at my face. “Your lip’s bleeding.”
“She awake?” A male voice called. Memaw nodded, and more footsteps crunched through the grass. The man who joined Memaw wore a Burns County Sheriff’s uniform. He’d taken off the uniform hat, but a band where it had rested dented his light brown hair. He knelt, peering at me with intense, bottomless blue eyes. Those eyes held all the world’s sorrows in them.
The guy looked familiar. Why should I know him? I didn’t go for the starched uniform type, so not a one-night-stand. Then, it came to me.
“I’ve seen you jogging early in the mornings.” My words sounded mushy, sort of unformed, as though I was talking around a mouthful of food. I reached up to touch my face and found a swollen lump where my lips used to be.
“Peri Jean, I’m Dean Turgeau.” He pronounced it two-joe. Dean reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notebook and a pen, and smiled. The smile never touched his sad, world-weary eyes. “I’m the jogger you wave to in the mornings.”
And the jogger whose butt I stared at in the rearview mirror after I passed him. He had moved into Gaslight City within the last few months. I kept meaning to find out his name, maybe make our paths cross, but I hadn’t. So this hottie is Sheriff Joey Holze’s new hire. Too bad. I kept my thoughts to myself and rolled to my knees.
“Don’t move,” said the hottie. What did he say his name was? Dean. That was it. “I’ve called this in, and the ambulance’ll be here soon.” He reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching me.
“I don’t need a doctor.” I tried to stand but staggered. Dean gripped my arm to steady me as the ground surged upward. His touch delivered a pleasant jolt, entirely inappropriate under the circumstances. I pulled away but couldn’t quit looking at him.
“You look like you need the hospital,” Dean said. Memaw nodded.
“I’m fine.” I spat to clear the metallic tang of blood from my mouth.
“How’d y’all find me out here?” I pretty much guessed how things played out, but I had to talk to convince them I didn’t need the hospital. The talking made my head throb worse. I reached up with both hands to hold my head together.
“I saw the trailer door hanging open and someone laid out on the ground when I got home from church,” Memaw said. “I thought you and Rae got into a fight, so I came out here and saw…her. I called 911.”
“I was patrolling the area,” Dean said. “Got here less than five minutes after the call came in.” He paused and frowned. “Your turn. What were you doing back here?”
“Rae and I had an appointment to talk after I finished work.” The world around me lurched and sizzled with an unnatural crispness. I need to sit down.
“Where is work?”
I rattled off the address of Mrs. Rudie’s former residence. “The house’s owner died. Her daughter and I cleaned it out so the family can sell it.”
“Was Rae alive when you found her?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t touch her or try to revive her. She looked dead.”
Memaw dragged me into a tight embrace. I broke off staring at Dean to hug her back. Her body trembled. I stroked her back and assured her I was all right.
“I’m confused about what happened here.” Dean edged closer, his pen poised. “Your cousin was dead, but her killer was still here?”
“He wasn’t in the trailer when I got here.” If I didn’t sit soon, I would collapse. “I found her and puked. Then, he was just there.”
“Did you know him?” When I shook my head, Dean asked, “Can you describe him?”
“He wore one of those camo hunting masks.” I gestured at my face. “I never saw his face.”
“Your attacker was male?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”
“He walked like a man.” I thought things over. “He had bigger feet than women usually have.”
“Did you see his vehicle?” Dean scribbled on the notepad, his pen scratching its surface.
“The only car here was Rae’s old LTD.” I pointed at the car.
“Then where did he come from? And how did he leave?” Dean said the words under his breath, maybe to himself. I answered anyway.
“There’s an old path that runs through those woods. You can get out to Beulah Church Road from it or onto the Longstreet property behind us.”
“Or you can cut through the Longstreet land and get to the Fischer place,” Memaw said.
Dean quit writing when a sheriff’s cruiser, blue and reds flashing, drove through our yard and cut across the pasture. It rolled to a stop a few feet from us. I noticed Dean clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. The cruiser’s door creaked open and Sheriff Joey Holze grunted as he hoisted his too many pounds from the driver’s seat. The car rose a few inches when it no longer had to bear its burden.
Holze waddled over to stand with us, breathing hard as though he’d just run a marathon. “Just got off the phone with the Sheriff next county over. He’s loaning us his crime scene van. They’ll be here shortly.”
“Thanks for driving out to let me know.” Dean’s face went still and expressionless.
“I’m gonna stay and observe.” Holze hitched up his pants and stared at the trailer. “She in there?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. He turned back to me, seemingly ready to resume our conversation.
Holze looked me over and shook his head. “You would be in the middle of this.”
Dean tilted his head as he studied me. Probably trying to figure out what kind of trouble I caused. He wouldn’t have to wait long. His mean-spirited boss would fill him in first chance he got.
“What the hell does that mean, Joseph?” Memaw’s stare could have brought down armies. Sheriff Joey’s jowls turned purple.
“Miss Leticia, your granddaughter has a mental illness––”
“Don’t you say one more word.” Memaw shook her finger at Sheriff Joey. The fat man cowered. Under other circumstances, I might have bit back a laugh. My head hurt too bad to do anything but stand there swaying like a drunk at closing time.
I glanced at Dean. His handsome profile turned away from me, a few feet of distance now between us. A pang of disappointment surprised me. This guy isn’t my type anyway. Who cares what he thinks of me?
“I’m going back to the house. I need to sit down, and I’m not doing it in that trailer.” I spun on my heels and almost fell. Memaw steadied me, slightly ruining my dramatic exit.
Dean Turgeau’s voice cut into my thoughts. “Don’t run off. I’ll come up to the house to talk to you soon as we process the crime scene.”
Clammy sweat cooled my skin as I imagined Dean’s questions and what I’d have to remember to answer them. Sour nausea bubbled up, and I leaned over and dry heaved. Memaw caught my arm and led me away. Two sets of eyes burned at my back.
An hour later, Burns County Sheriff’s cruisers, ambulances, and anybody who could find a reason to show up crawled all over Memaw’s land. Deputy Brittany Watson—who I used to babysit—vibrated with excitement as she stood outside the crime scene holding a clipboard and checking people in and out.
Burns County, one of the smallest counties in East Texas, had a population of less than twenty thousand. Murders, when they happened, were pretty clear-cut. A wife got angry enough to shoot her two-timing husband. A drunk ran through a stop sign and plowed over a kid on his bike. Tragic, but certainly not the stuff of true crime novels. Rae’s murder was different, gruesome enough to be on TV.
My jaw throbbed fit to kill, but according to Dr. Nathan Longstreet, it wasn’t broken. Camo Man must have pulled his punch at the last second. If he hadn’t, I’d have been in the Gaslight City ER getting my jaw wired instead of preparing iced tea in Memaw’s kitchen. It’s important to be thankful for the small things. A childhood experience left me with a terror of hospitalization so intense I’d do just about anything to avoid it. Like working in the kitchen after almost having my jaw broken. Nothing sounded better t
han a handful of pain relievers and sleep. But if I gave in to the impulse, I’d have to admit the extent of my injuries. Then, Memaw would make Dr. Longstreet try to convince me to spend the night at the hospital. No way in hell. So I did kitchen duty.
Somewhere between boiling water and adding the insane amount of sugar Memaw insisted on to the tea, a question occurred to me. Why didn’t the camo man kill me along with Rae? The latex gloves implied a willingness to kill me. Didn’t they? I thought it over as I stirred the syrupy tea. Not necessarily. They only implied a desire to mask his identity.
The camo man returned to the trailer after he killed Rae. If he wanted to kill me, he would have. Why else would he come back? Maybe he left something behind. He wore the latex gloves to make damn sure he left no prints while he retrieved…what? I just got in the way of him covering up his crime.
Cold droplets of tea sprayed my forearm, startling me out of my thoughts. My vigorous stirring had slopped it out of the pitcher. Disgusted, I wiped the sweet mess off my skin with a damp paper towel. I balanced the glass pitcher and two glasses on a tray and took it out to the back porch.
Memaw sat in a creaking wooden rocking chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders. She stared out at the crime scene with a blank expression on her face. Dr. Longstreet, who also served as Justice of the Peace, squatted next to her, murmuring something I couldn’t quite hear. He quit speaking when I came close.
They both accepted tall glasses of the quintessential Southern elixir. I put down the tray and sat on the porch swing next to Dr. Longstreet. The horror of what I’d seen in the trailer wouldn’t leave me. It kept circling back to haunt me. The need to cry—to let some emotion out—tightened my chest. I saved stuff like that for when I was alone, though.
“How does this work?” I spoke to keep from crying. A little explosion of pain in my jaw rewarded the effort. I put my hand to my face and probed the sore area.
