Abram's Bridge

by Glenn Rolfe

  “You better be careful what you look for, boy. You might not like what you find, or who, for that matter,” the man said.

  Li’l Ron felt the heat from the burning cherry of the cigarette fade away, replaced by the cool night. The hand on his collar let go. He slumped to the ground.

  “You ain’t never talked to me before, you got that? Don’t go tellin’ nobody nothin’. And you make sure you mind your own fuckin’ business round here. Next time, I’ll put that cherry right in your goddamn lyin’ eye.”

  The man threw the cigarette to the ground, tucked his hands in his hoodie pockets, disappearing around the corner.

  Li’l Ron wiped the tears from his face, trying to stifle the sobs, but he couldn’t. The most fucked-up day of his life was getting more fucked up by the minute.

  Following his run-in with the angry stranger in the black hoodie, the burning fire inside he’d stoked for his father was smothered. Something about the guy had been familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was certain he’d never seen the man before. His words though: “You been looking for something in this town?”, “…mind your own fuckin’ business round here…”, “you might not like what you find, or who…”

  The only mess that Li’l Ron had his nose in was trying to figure out what happened to Sweet Kate. Why she had been cast off as a runaway and her disappearance not further investigated. He’d seen a billion of those shows like 48 Hours Mystery, as well as fake crime shows based on real cases, like Law and Order.

  Sweet Kate had said the guy’s name was Greg. It had to be his dad, didn’t it? But, if so, who the hell was this wack job threatening to burn his eyes out? Doubt wormed its way into his heart as he hopped off his bike at the corner of his nan’s yard. Dropping the Huffy on the lawn and breathing into his numb hands, he glided up the steps.

  Nan was sleeping in her rocker, Alex Trebek blathering on the television, her knitting lying in her lap beneath her folded hands. He grabbed the faded-pink and sea-green afghan from the couch, tossing it over her, and lowered the volume on the TV.

  Li’l Ron searched the kitchen cupboards, finding a can of Beefaroni. He nuked it in a bowl, grabbed a Pepsi and headed up the stairs to his refuge.

  He needed time to sort through a few questions brewing in his head about Sweet Kate and this shithole town. There had to be more to the story, and as incriminating as the name she’d given him was, it occurred to him that he never considered that there might be another Greg his dad went to school with. After last night’s blowup and today’s not quite confession about hitting or not hitting his mother, his father’s hand fit the glove too well.

  It all hurt his head. And what was he supposed to do now, with this guy threatening him? How was he supposed to find the answers that someone obviously didn’t want him to find? Everything about this stunk.

  He needed to talk to Sweet Kate again, had to get her to tell him everything.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Greg Sawyer slowed his truck into the driveway. He was buzzing from his drinks at Del’s, but he wasn’t drunk. Still, after last night, eggshells were now a privileged path, humility his new best friend.

  His mother was sleeping beneath an afghan in front of the television. He should wake her and get her to her room, but the smell of his breath would have her drawing conclusions on how much he’d drunk—best to let her be.

  He checked the thermostat, notching it up from Mother’s permanent sixty-four degrees to a more suitable seventy. He’d throw in a little extra for fuel if she yacked at him over it in the morning. And, most likely, she would. He shut off the TV and made his way up the stairs.

  The light beneath Li’l Ron’s door beckoned to him. He placed an ear to the wood and heard the melodic sounds of Iron Maiden.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  He cracked open the door, sneaking his head in.

  “Hey, you got a minute,” he asked.

  His son was scratching away in a notebook, but slammed it shut, startled by the sound of his voice.

  “Yeah, sure,” Li’l Ron said. Greg noted the folded arms atop the notebook.

  “What are you workin’ on, homework?”

  “Yeah,” the boy said.

  “So…about this afternoon…”

  “Do we need to talk about this right now?”

  Greg stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “I’m afraid so.”

  Li’l Ron sat up on the bed, grabbing the notebook and tucking it under his pillow.

  Greg sat down next to him, drooping his shoulders, head down, and sighed. “This is some pretty grown-up stuff, but I guess you’re getting older than I’m ready for.”

  His son said nothing; he just sat with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the closet door ahead of him.

  “Well, I guess you’re pretty pissed, and you should be. I used to drink a lot when your mother and I first moved to Pennsylvania. You were only two, two and a half, and I was having trouble keeping work. The economy sucked then too. I’d be at home, you’d be cryin’. I felt like I was failing at everything, at every turn. So I did what I’d seen most men do in this town. I tried to drown those feelings. I guess I’m back in that same old wheelhouse, huh?”

  Li’l Ron stared ahead. Greg continued.

  “It only happened a couple times. I was trashed, your mom came home, and she was feeling the pressure too, being the bread winner, and then coming home to find me next to useless. She must have been holding it all back, because one night she came home and unloaded on me. And every boiling, nasty word she spewed was a fistful of hard truth that I didn’t want to hear. Problem was, every shot was a direct hit, and I just…lost it. I hated myself, I hated hearing out loud the things the annoying voice in my head had been saying for months. I hit her. I knocked her to the floor…and the hurt…in her eyes…”

  Greg paused, wiping at the corners of his eyes.

  “I dropped down next to your mother, and she held me. She held me.” Greg stood up, collecting himself. Something in his stomach was trying to devour everything inside of him. The black hole could only be filled with booze. At least, that’s what the weak part of him whispered.

  “The same scene played out again a year later after I lost my job at the factory. Your mom held me again, blood running from her mouth, and she held me. I don’t know, son, maybe she made her mind up then. Maybe she knew I could never give you guys the life you deserved. I’m sure I had it all coming.”

  Li’l Ron got up and looked him in the eye. His boy’s eyes were glistening, the tears holding steady, not yet released.

  “Did you ever cheat on Mom in high school?”

  “What?”

  “Did you know Katharine Bell?”

  “What? Ronnie, what…”

  “Someone killed that girl. And someone…” His son stopped; the tears fell.

  “What? Do you, do you know something about this? Do you know something about that girl?”

  His son turned away again. “Dad, did you know her?” he asked.

  Greg’s mind swooned. The black hole begging for more, begging for all of him. What the hell had his son stumbled into, and how?

  Li’l Ron turned back to face him. “Did you?”

  “I-I didn’t know her. She was a friend of a friend,” he said, feeling his insides slide away.

  “Did you ever talk to her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever kiss her?”

  “What? No, what… Where is this all coming from?” Anger poured over the pull in Greg Sawyer’s guts.

  “I-I, I’d rather not say right now,” his son said, clamming up.

  Greg stepped toward the door, opening it. “Ronnie, I’m sorry about all of my shit coming down on you. I am, and I don’t know what all of this is about, but I suggest you drop it. This is a small town. People don’t appreciate kids who
go stirring up ghosts. I suggest you finish that homework of yours and keep your Hardy Boy antics on your shelf,” he said, pausing as he stepped into the hall. “Good night.”

  Greg didn’t bother looking back; he just closed the door behind him, needing another drink.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Heath Barnes hated Jase. Jase adopted him when he was two, but only to win his mother over. The guy couldn’t care less if he were alive or dead. Straight As didn’t impress him. First place in the Coral County writing competition, and the youngest author to ever be published in a Best of Horror Anthology didn’t matter. If anything, the accomplishments seemed to make him more invisible.

  Heath’s mother was still a great mom, when she wasn’t tied up with one of Jase’s stupid town functions, or retreats.

  Outside of that, the only person who seemed to care at all about him was his papa, and even that felt more like someone just keeping an eye on him in case of…well, who knows. Maybe he cared and didn’t know how to show it, or maybe he was holding on to see if his grandkid’s properly functioning brain paid off down the road. Whatever the old man’s reason, Papa Schultz was there. He was present. All Heath had to do was ride his bike down to the library, and there he was.

  Papa Schultz was his biological dad’s dad. Heath was forbidden to have any contact with his real dad, per both Papa and his mother. The guy was a head case, a drunk and a grade A scumbag. When your own father says these things about you, it’s more than a bad relationship. His mother had been young and misguided, hooking up with his dad, getting pregnant and having to forgo college to raise him. Where Papa’s hatred came from was still a bit of an enigma, and afternoons at the library were notably less awkward when conversations about his real dad were avoided.

  Tonight, his mom and Jase were in New Hampshire, doing one of their vacation/conference combos. They’d left him with Papa Schultz when he was a kid. Now that he was almost thirteen, he got to try a weekend at home alone. At least they’d acknowledged that he was responsible.

  Mother had told him to phone Papa if at any point he became uncomfortable. He doubted that would happen. And if he did call Papa, it would be over that curious Sawyer kid. Heath had overheard him asking Papa about some missing girl. Papa had put on his big white smile, but Heath knew the old man’s faux faces when he saw them. After the Sawyer kid left, Papa fidgeted, stroked his goatee and rapped his fingers on every flat piece of wood furnishing in the building, practically hopping up and down to have the library to himself. Heath had felt the long, antsy stares; he’d finally given in to the old man’s anxiety attack and headed home.

  What his papa didn’t know was that he had circled back and watched him through the basement window as the old man tossed the newspapers the Sawyer kid had been looking at in the building’s still-functional furnace. While his interest was already piqued by his papa’s public antics with Sawyer, the latter display made the old town mystery impossible to dismiss.

  Maybe a twelve-year-old boy, even a responsible one, needed supervision after all. Heath would be visiting his papa in the morning.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Li’l Ron was out the door by 9:00 a.m. His nan was gone, his father too.

  His father had known her. That’s what he’d said. She was a friend of a friend. Who? Who was this friend? The man who’d threatened him last night? It had to be, didn’t it?

  Li’l Ron wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything right now except that he had to speak with Sweet Kate. He needed to know more.

  He hopped on his bike, pedaling past a truck parked across from Mr. Henley’s house. Hunters weren’t supposed to be this close to houses. The woods are pretty dense out here though, he supposed. The guy or girl could’ve trekked through the marsh and up into the hills. The license plate read SGS. Li’l Ron wondered if it was an acronym. If it was, he didn’t know it. He pumped his legs, propelling his chariot onward.

  Stefan Schultz finished pissing behind the big pine tree, zipping his fly and turning in time to see the Sawyer boy pedaling past his truck and heading away from town. He picked up his hunting rifle—part of his ruse, he hadn’t hunted in years, but it would serve to answer any questions about his being here—and made his way through the murky waters and weeds to where his pickup sat. He had a feeling he knew where the kid was heading.

  Nosey little fuck.

  The bridge came into sight as Li’l Ron coasted his Huffy down around the bend (the wind surprisingly warm, the song of the creek already audible).

  Sweet Kate stood like a goddess, the morning’s sunlight bathing her untouchable grace in gold. Given a reprieve from the deep chill of autumn, the 63-degree air was sweet, invigorating and clean. Sweet Kate’s smile—a rare, precious flower in this bleak, barely breathing town—momentarily shifted his reason for coming.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she said; her voice even sounded more melodious.

  “It is,” he said, lost in her wonder.

  “Come, I want to try something with you.”

  She was standing in her normal place among the rocks just before the creek, barefoot, crystal-eyed, her white dress with the dark stain moving only with her sway.

  “Take off your shoes,” she said. “No, stop, leave them there. Your socks too.”

  He did as she commanded, her highness, his queen.

  “Come on, silly, come take my hand.”

  Their fingers interlocked. She helped him maintain his balance as he tried to step over the smaller, pointier rocks jutting up from the trickling waters.

  He watched her dip her feet in—the water, undisturbed, didn’t notice—and then obliged as she nodded for him to do the same.

  “Holy shit, that’s fucking cold,” he said, dancing his feet in and out of the arctic creek.

  She laughed, never letting go.

  “Oh yeah, I see. Real funny. Easy for you when you can’t even feel it.”

  She tucked her free hand across her tummy, covering the red stain, and continued hawing over his discomfort. It wasn’t long before he gave in, joining in her mirth.

  She straightened up, her lips blue with death, her eyes still smiling, and took his other hand. “There’s just something about the little contradictions in a day like this,” she said.

  Li’l Ron’s throat was dry, his stomach fluttering as she stepped to him. “Ah…how-how’s that?” he said, trying not to let his tingling nerves get the best of him.

  “You see this gorgeous day. The sun, brilliant and warm; the creek, chirping with life and rushing along, carefree. The air even tastes sweeter, like it’s filled with the promise of something even better to come, but then you step into reality, into the truth. It’s cold. The cold is still there, waiting. It’s like a natural illusion, ya know?”

  Staring at her, he knew all too well.

  “I came down here because I need to ask you some more questions,” he said, breaking free from her dreamy presence.

  Her smiling eyes drooped as she sighed and stared at their tangled hands. “I know. I knew you’d want more. I probably said too much.”

  He hunched down below her chin, looking back up into her face, catching those blue eyes.

  “Don’t you want everyone to know the truth?” he said. “I read more about that idea—how you might be trapped here because the truth is buried.”

  “Nobody cares. They never did. Why should it matter now?”

  “I care,” he said. “I think…I think you deserve to be free. And if I can uncover what happened…well, maybe… It can’t hurt to try, right?”

  Sweet Kate wrapped her arms around him. She was doing her tearless crying again.

  “I thought I knew who it was, I mean, after you said his name, I thought for sure…but I think I was wrong.” He held her shoulders, feeling the chill against his palms. “Can you tell me what this Greg looked like?”

  She closed h
er eyes.

  “He was a little taller than you. Curly, blond hair, eyes narrow but thoughtful…like Josey Wales,” she said. “He smelled like cigarettes and beer most of the time, but other times he smelled like, like dust, like something old and musty. He had good lips, kissable lips, and strong hands.”

  Definitely not my dad, Li’l Ron thought.

  “And you’re sure his name was Greg?”

  She opened her eyes. “Yes, that’s what he told me. What reason would he have to lie?”

  Li’l Ron bit his bottom lip, staring at the water splashing up over a round rock by their feet. “His girlfriend.”

  “What?”

  He looked up, no longer feeling the cold water around his ankles. Whether from his body going numb or from the electricity surging through his veins at the moment, he couldn’t tell.

  “You said he had a girlfriend he would complain about to you. That she treated him like crap. That she told him she was pregnant.”

  “Yes…” Sweet Kate looked lost.

  “He didn’t want to get caught. He didn’t want you blathering to somebody in town. Didn’t want word to get out. He didn’t want to lose you, or her, I suppose.”

  “So he gave me a fake name?”

  “It makes sense. I bet he never gave you his full name.”

  Sweet Kate looked hurt. He’d forgotten that she’d actually loved this psychopath. Even after he raped her, she still loved him. Who else did she have?

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to get so excited,” he offered.

  “No, it’s okay, but I think he did.”

  “Did? Did what?”

  “I think the first time he came down…when we introduced ourselves…he gave me a name, a full name.”

  “What was it?”

  “I can’t…I can’t remember.”

  Li’l Ron believed her.

  “I’m sorry, Li’l Ron. I can’t remember what he said. I just keep hearing Greg.”