Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep

by Donna White Glaser

  On the far side, rimming the pond was a field of rocks—boulders, really—separating the pond from the leveled floor of the working quarry. Beyond them, mounds of gravel as big as single car garages dotted the area. Each pile, separate and clearly defined by color and size, looked as if they’d been shaped by the massive hand of some giant playing in a sandbox. Beyond that, I spied a Quonset hut and a trio of heavy equipment machines. From this distance, they looked like toys. Even farther back, stood a dingy brick building—an office, maybe. If I could get to that and break in, there’d be phones.

  Big if.

  Dread rose with acidy bile in my throat when I realized my best bet—maybe my only chance—was not left or right, but forward. Across the pond. Back into the murky fluid that nearly hosted eternity for me.

  There’d be no way to hide. As I crossed, I’d be right out there in the open, exposed to the whole world. Or at least that part of the world that was actively trying to kill me. On the one hand, if the little bastard was coming to finish the job, he already knew where I was. If he wasn’t, the biggest risk was leaches. And maybe drowning. Little things like that.

  I was taking too much time. Analyzing was going to get me killed. The survivor in me knew it; it reached down and hit the OVERRIDE button long enough to get me in the water. Once in, my only goal was to get back out. My brain screamed for land, while my body took over, pushing for the other side, ignoring exhaustion and fear alike. It worked for a while.

  About half way across, I realized if Caleb were anywhere along the ridgeline, I could probably see him now. Turning back, I tread water, searching the bluff.

  There.

  And he saw me see him. Warmth washed over my churning legs, briefly, as my body released urine. He was making his way down the east side of the gravel pit about equidistant with me to the Quonset. His path was an obstacle course of chunky rocks and loose gravel; mine, a test of endurance.

  In a jerky spasm, I twisted around, scissoring towards land. I was a pretty fair swimmer, but the cold of deep water and shock sapped my strength. I choked on a mouthful of water, upgrading from shivering to shaking. Every third or fourth stroke, I flung a panicky look over my shoulder, watching the relentless progress of his hunt. Forcing myself to quit glancing back was like kicking a heroin addiction.

  When I finally reached the bank, I could scarcely drag myself over the rocks. Weeds clung to my leaden legs, wrapping and slicing at the same time.

  Boulders loomed like sentinels all around. Caleb was nowhere in sight, although he was close enough for me to hear the scraping sounds of his shoes—his stupid, bloody shoes; I hoped they shredded under his feet—and his ragged breathing as he clambered over the stony landscape.

  I dove for the shadows. The desire to hide in a crevice burned like a flame, searing my brain. Turning into prey created in me an atavistic compulsion to retreat into a dark, snug hidey-hole.

  A death sentence, for sure. Caleb wasn’t going to give up and go away just because I turned his hunt into a game of hide-and-seek. Despite his age, he seemed more of a seek-and-destroy kind of guy, actually.

  Ignoring my throbbing ankle, I darted from boulder to boulder, keeping to the shade, trying to calm my breathing, so my quasi-hyperventilating gasps didn’t give my position away. I had to get to that office. A slight breeze stirred the air. Goose bumps wrote about fear in Braille across my skin.

  The breeze brought the sound of a motor. I peeked around the boulder I was hunched behind, chancing a look. A white minivan pulled up next to the Quonset. The driver hopped out: Reverend Gibson.

  Well, shit.

  He stood, hands on hips, scoping out the area. He called Caleb’s name several times before his son emerged warily from between a bulldozer and dump truck. I ducked back down. At least I knew where all the players were. I was only about two hundred feet away, but the sporadic breeze and rock walls made sounds dangerously deceptive. Isolated words, fragments, drifted over. Unfortunately, not enough to hear their plan.

  Suddenly, their voices rose. The words remained indistinct, but the tone rang clear. Anger bounced off the walls, ricocheting in violent bursts. Birds hushed.

  I took my chance.

  On the move again. Dashing from boulder to boulder, trying to be quiet, but focused on motion. The boulders ended, forcing me out into the wide open space—a gravel and pea-sand field. I paused. They were still arguing.

  I burst from the rock sanctuary, sprinting like a rabbit flushed from her hole. Made it about fifty feet before being tackled from behind. I went down hard—face first. Gravel bit my face, hands, and knees. Air crushed out of my lungs. Caleb landed in relative comfort on top of me.

  I twisted beneath him like a wild thing, kicking and flailing, but ended up flat on my back, with him straddling my torso. His hands wrapped around my neck. Squeezed. My head felt thick, the blood trapped and pulsing above his hands, its fragile pathway blocked. Spots danced in my eyes, blooming into gray blotches.

  Then, it stopped. His hands lost their grip, scratching grooves across my neck. Then, they were back, squeezing. A moment later, gone again—a stop-and-go death. The weight of him lifted. My grateful lungs pulled air, gulped oxygen. I rolled to my side. Within seconds, however, terror returned, pushing me to my knees.

  Caleb and his father thrashed in the dirt next to me, fighting savagely. Deep grunts and fleshy thuds punctuated their struggle. I tried to stand. Couldn’t.

  I crawled on torn hands and knees to a cave under the bulldozer.

  The men kept fighting. Caleb was dishing out the worst of it—punching, kicking, eye gouging. His father seemed to be trying to fend him off, grappling for a hold. Gibson’s breathing sounded harsh and ragged, his face flushed with the effort. Caleb grabbed a handful of dirt, mashing it across his father’s face, blinding him. In a blur of motion, Caleb broke away, and jumped to his feet. Gibson struggled up a split second later.

  Teeth bared, grimacing, their faces turned into filthy masks of raw hate. I never saw Caleb’s hand move, but suddenly he held the tazor. I heard him laugh.

  Gibson went down.

  For an eye-blink his son stood over him, panting. But not, apparently, satisfied. Caleb fell on his father’s chest.

  Again, with the choking.

  Gibson’s face, nearly level with my own, turned red, then purple, eyes bulging open. Fear sparked through my body, nerves snapping in little electrical shots. I crept out of my dark place, grabbed a grapefruit-sized rock and lurched—not quite crawling, not quite upright. I hovered over the two, father and son, joined in a dance with death.

  Though-fragments exploded like fire bursts through my brain: Young, so young. He’s never going to stop. Not ever.

  No choice.

  I swung sideways from the shoulder, striking down. My ears registered the thump-squoosh of a water balloon splattering open against the ground. My eyes tracked the fanning, red Rorschach. Bright red.

  I went back to my dark hidey-hole.

  EPILOGUE

  Belch interviewed me at the hospital. He stayed four hours asking the same questions over and over until I puked. I didn’t aim for the little bucket they give you, either. He’s got a weak stomach, kind of surprising for a police detective, and he left.

  Since we hadn’t finished, I had to go into the station as soon as the hospital released me. The interview room surprised me. Far from the sterile, institutionalized room I’d been in last time, it was set up like a cozy living room. Even had a fish tank bubbling in the corner. I’d have to ask Blodgett about that.

  Belch had a female officer with him both times, but he ran the show. He was particularly adept at alternating between good cop/bad cop all on his own. I cautioned him about dissociative tendencies, and surprised a laugh out of the girl cop. Unfortunately, it did nothing for Belch’s mood.

  They say there won’t be a trial. For me, I mean. Nobody questioned it was self-defense, especially after Gibson gave his statement, too. It didn’t stop Mary from leaving him
, though.

  I don’t know how to reconcile myself as a killer.

  There are other losses. After she got back from vacation, my sponsor Sue did indeed learn of my adventures, and got so pissed she won’t work with me anymore. Fired me, in AA terms. It saddens me. And it feels very strange not to check in with her. Beth hasn’t had a sponsor in a while, so we are going to try co-sponsoring each other. We have no problems holding each other accountable. More importantly, she knows exactly what I’ve gone through. I’m tired of explaining.

  Eli? He’s helping me shop for a car. And we’re dating, I guess. Strangely, it’s the one place in my life where I feel least out-of-control. There are problems, but he’s genuinely nice. I find myself startled to realize how sexy that is. Who knew?

  I’ve discovered that being on the other side of therapy sucks. Too much work, too little progress, and absolutely no reward. Plus, the patient is a resistive jerk. And though I fully expected to experience post-traumatic stress symptoms, the nightmares, the jumpiness, the mood swings infuriate me. The ongoing sense of helplessness eats at my psyche like cancer; education and knowledge—my lifelong weapons against the world—are useless.

  I can’t find anything in my old textbooks that tells me how to cope with killing a child.

  As added aggravation, I’m still paying for that useless, fancy education with a boatload of student loans. And, for once, my mother agrees with me.

  I started seeing a former supervisor of mine. Rianna and I meet on Wednesdays. So far, we’ve only discussed the events leading up to the gravel pit. She’s patient. I spent the first three sessions obsessing over the fact that minus the L on the end, the location of my near demise spells out grave pit.

  Kris…

  Another thing I’m not ready to deal with. It still unclear to anyone just how deeply she was involved with Caleb. The police are still talking to her, still investigating. At the very least, she lured me to her apartment in exchange for drugs, which, of course, she denies. Her story is Caleb told her he needed to talk to me in private. She says she didn’t stick around because she didn’t want our contentious relationship to distract from him getting help.

  ‘Cause she’s thoughtful like that.

  As hurt and as angry as I am, I still hope it’s a bottom for her—a reality check that might produce some good if she decides to turn her life around. More than anything, I want to see her walk through the swinging doors of the HP & Me Club.

  I might beat her up when she does, but it would still be good.

  At least, Paul is back on track. He’s still working the program with Chad, and a few weeks after he moved back home, he started dating Chad’s younger sister, Callie Ann. She’s cute and funny and filled to her pretty, blue eyeballs with sunny Wisconsin-niceness. She’s everything Paul deserves.

  I don’t like her.

  I’m not proud of it, and I probably over-compensate—every time we meet, we’re so sugary-sweet we risk causing a diabetic chain reaction that could wipe out all of Chippewa Falls and surrounding communities. I don’t think she likes me, either.

  Thankfully, Paul’s completely oblivious to the undercurrents, which is all that matters.

  About a week ago, Beth and I were sitting in the club lobby, waiting for a meeting. I had a case of the blues, which plague me frequently these days. She knows I watch the doors, waiting for my sister. That day, however, I’d purposely sat with my back to them, wanting to break the habit before it got too engrained. I still heard the squeak of the hinges, and Beth, who sat facing them, grabbed my wrist in shock.

  I spun around.

  Manny stood in the doorway, holding it open. Eli came through next with a pale, shaking wraith clutching his arm. Reggie. Three feet in, she came to a full stop, taking in the ratty furniture, the stained floor, the ever-present scent of stale coffee. She stood unsteadily, full of wariness. Some defiance. Mostly, a beaten, hollow haze hung over her face and eyes. Good.

  It wasn’t Kris, but it was something.