Eviscerating the Snake - The Complete Trilogy

by Ashley Fontainne

  Earlier, after I had finished whining and complaining about all my jumbled thoughts and feelings after arriving in a cloud of dust, she opened up her own heart and shared with me what the last thirty-four years of her life had been like. I listened not just with my ears, but with my pain-filled heart. Her words somehow sunk deep inside me, peeling back the countless layers of hatred, anger, distrust, and sorrow that had stacked up for years. They had been encased in a blackened knot that she finally broke through. I realized about halfway through her tale that, although poignant, her words held a deeper meaning for me. They were strangely inviting, almost as though they were being spoken by someone or something else. She shared her love of God with me, and how she relied on Him for strength and power to get her through her painful journey of losing her daughter and then the death of her husband. Her voice was a quiet whisper that floated over me, showing me that the missing piece of my life was that relationship; I just was clueless as to how to get there.

  Her wise eyes saw my confusion, and she excused herself from the porch, quickly returning with a well-worn, leather-covered book in her hand. Placing it in my hands, she said, “This will answer all the questions you have, my dear.” She sat back down, smiling at the fact that my eyes had widened at the thickness of the Bible. “Don’t worry, honey. Gina was an avid reader and marked it well. Just follow her notes; they will lead the way to the answers you seek and, hopefully, quiet your dreaded nightmares.”

  Now, Bible in hand and her words ringing in my ears, I smiled back at her lovely face. “Thank you…for everything. I agree with you. There’s a reason why we’re in each other’s lives,” I said, staring down at the cracked leather cover of Gina’s Bible.

  “Yes, you are our Avenging Angel,” came her quiet reply as she smiled, the thin skin crinkling around her eyes. She clasped her hands to her chest as her eyes closed, almost if she were reliving the dream she had of Gina so long ago. Under her breath, I would have sworn I heard her say, “You look so much like her,” as a tear slid down her face.

  I smiled back at her as the color rose in my cheeks at her pet name for me and replied, “Yes, you know what role I played in your life…now for me to find out yours in mine.” Holding the tattered Bible up in front of me, I said, “I assume my answer lies somewhere inside these pages?”

  “Avenging Angel, it’s nice to meet you…I am your Guiding Light,” she quipped, immediately grinning from ear to ear as she took her hands and shushed me from the porch. “Now, skedaddle, girl! Go see your man before he’s sawing logs in his bed, dreaming about you.”

  The laughter between the two of us filled the quiet night as I heeded her advice and headed to my car and climbed in, gently setting the Bible down in the seat in the same place that less than a year ago, I had placed the urn of its previous owner. Once again, Mrs. Milligan entrusted me with something so precious and valuable I couldn’t bear the thought of letting her down, and I promised myself that as soon as I could, I would investigate the words on the pages that she seemed so intent upon me reading. As I pulled out onto the darkened highway and headed toward Steve’s house, I laughed out loud when I pictured how my parents would react when I told them I was reading the Bible. They both were staunch, card-carrying atheists that would flip out, thinking I had been brainwashed by some crazed religious cult, and would probably insist on me going to some sort of de-programming unit for immediate treatment. Their reaction alone was worth me reading the pages of this book.

  My thoughts of shocking my parents and causing them a few more sprouting gray hairs were interrupted by the chirping of my cell phone from Steve’s incoming call. It was almost ten o’clock, and I was sure he was wondering where I was since I told him earlier that I was on my way before becoming caught up in Mrs. Milligan’s life story.

  “I was just about to call you,” I said. “I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

  “Well now, I was beginning to worry about you. Then I remembered, ‘Why, that’s the Warrior of Winscott, and no one messes with her,’” he said, laughing at his own joke. He knew how much that newspaper article’s new nickname for me caused me to see red, for the embarrassment was overwhelming and unwelcomed.

  “Oh, funny man. Did you want me to come over or not? One more crack like that and I’ll turn this car around and head straight back to my place,” I quipped, hoping he sensed the playfulness in my voice.

  He did and responded in his best impression of Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. “Why ma’am, I would be distraught beyond consoling if you changed your mind and did not offer me the chance to bask in your glorious presence this evening. I do apologize for my rude behavior and promise it won’t happen again.”

  We laughed and chatted for the next few minutes as I made my way up the twisty mountain road toward his house. I had only been to his place twice before and never in the dark, so I was gladly trading quips with him on the phone. I was a city girl, and the darkness of the mountains still caused me a bit of apprehension. Fortunately, my GPS worked just fine out here in Redneckville (my pet name for his farm) and led me right to his drive. He was sitting on the porch waiting for me, beer in hand and that gorgeous grin across his face. We hung up as I stepped out of the car, and I threw my phone in the seat, determined to not let the constant notifications and calls distract me from what I came here to do.

  He stood up, reached over to the small cooler beside him, and pulled out an ice-cold beer. Until I met him, beer had never once crossed my lips, but now I loved it. He handed it to me as his fingers gently touched mine, sending shivers running up my spine. I returned his smile, looking deeply into his eyes for the first time, and watching the mixture of happiness, lust, confusion, and questions that floated around behind them. This was the first time I ever came to Summerset without planning it ahead of time with him, and I had recognized the intrigue in his voice when I called earlier and told him I was there visiting Mrs. Milligan and would stop by to see him later in the evening.

  I stood there staring at him, drinking every bit of his presence into my soul, the rush of desire filling my mind and making me almost dizzy. I waited for the gut punch to slam into me and render me unable to finish what I came here to do and was surprised that it never materialized. I didn’t say a word as I moved closer, my hand now resting on his chest, the thumping of his heart strong with excitement, my eyes never leaving his as I whispered, “I’m ready.”

  He never said a word as he stared deeply into my eyes, searching, almost as if he was waiting for me to bolt as I had done in the past. His nervousness was almost palatable and his questioning thoughts evident behind his brown eyes that were heavily hooded with desire. His calloused, rough hand reached out to my face, gently cupping my chin as he leaned his lumbering frame down and gently kissed me, and as our lips locked together, the only thing I felt was desire flow through me. Sensing the hunger for him in my response, he pulled away briefly, face flushed and eyes gleaming, and said, his voice husky and low, “You sure?”

  My answer was silent as one hand reached around his lithe torso, pulling myself tightly into his fully-ready frame and the other pulled his head toward mine. I kissed him like I had never kissed another, and finally, we united as one under the bright, Arizona moon.

  I awoke the next morning to the sounds of bellowing cows and sat up quickly in the bed, momentarily confused as to where I was. Then the scent of my lover gently wafted to my nose as I jostled around in the sheets, and I realized I was in Steve’s bed, alone. I noticed a small note from Steve on the pillow next to me that read: “Babe, duty called this morning, and I had to leave early. God knows I didn’t want to climb out of that warm spot next to you after dreaming about this moment for months now. It looked like you were sleeping so peacefully, I couldn’t bear to wake you up. Breakfast is in the kitchen, and the coffee is steaming. Call me when you are up and on your way…last night was amazing and, well…worth the wait.”

  I smiled at his sweet words, just for a split second, then sat up straight in
bed in a panic, noticing that it was light outside and realizing I was not just going to be late to work, but I would miss most of the morning. Good grief, what time was it?

  I leapt out of bed like my feet were on fire and sprinted around the bedroom, retrieving my clothes that were strewn all about the room from last night’s passion-induced frenzy. As I snatched them up and raced to the bathroom, I cringed at the thought of wearing the same clothes once again, but then I remembered that I never made it into work yesterday, so at least no one there would be aware that I was wearing the same outfit for the second day in a row. Once showered and dressed, I spent what seemed like an eternity looking for my bag, which I finally found shoved underneath Steve’s bed. Good grief, how did it get there? I wondered as I snatched it up and ran into the bathroom again to do the five-minute makeup drill. I gave up on drying my mound of hair and just pulled it back into a slick ponytail. I glanced quickly at the final results, wincing at my appearance, and then bolted for the kitchen, rummaging through the unfamiliar cabinets until I found a coffee mug that I didn’t think Steve would miss. Filling it up to the brim with coffee, I raced to my car, eager to get on the road.

  Engine roaring and air on full blast, I headed out onto the small, two-lane highway toward Phoenix. I finally glanced at the clock—I put off doing that while getting ready, afraid to really know what time it was—and was shocked to discover that it was only 8:20. My breathing and heart rate slowed just a bit, since it wasn’t as late as I thought. I reached into my purse to find my cell so I could call Steve and check the undoubtedly numerous calls and emails I had missed during my “interlude” last night with Steve, but I couldn’t find it. Briefly, I panicked and thought I might have left it at Steve’s and almost turned around, but then I recalled throwing it on the front seat last night before I jumped him, and sure enough, there it was under my purse.

  I listened to my messages and forwarded a few of them to my office phone, making mental notes to remember to listen to them when I made it to work. Of course, keeping my head focused on work issues would be rather difficult today, just like yesterday, but for entirely different reasons.

  As I drove down the winding mountain roads out of Summerset, reliving my incredible evening with Steve, for the first time in years, I actually felt relaxed. I remembered the first moment I felt that spark of electricity between the two of us the day of Gina’s funeral and how his impressive stature shouted to my soul “safe haven,” yet I held him at bay for so long—my intimacy issues overriding my libido.

  Not anymore.

  A sweet, tingly shiver ran through my body as I recalled our lovemaking from last night. His note was right—it was well worth the wait. I smiled a bit, thinking that I was now feeling what the romance novels my mother loved to read would describe as, “The world truly did just melt away as we embraced and I was surprised at my uninhibited sexual response to his strong touch.” Cliché I know, but somehow, fitting and true—my crazy, messed up world really did melt away, at least during those glorious hours he held me in his muscular arms, enveloping me in a luxuriously warm, sensual embrace. His presence next to me allowed my eyes to remain shut all night, and somehow, managed to fend off the dreams from their nighttime ritual of torture.

  I felt like a new woman.

  Mrs. Milligan had hit the nail on the head yesterday evening when she chastised me for bottling everything up inside and only sharing my innermost thoughts with “…an old, wrinkly woman…” that could only listen, when I needed to open my eyes and look at the man that was standing right in front of me, waiting patiently for me to peel back the layers of security wrapped around my heart and embrace his love. “Honey, men like Steve are a once-in-a-lifetime find, like a diamond buried in the dirt—sometimes you must dig through the nasty, sticky mud to find them. You see yours shimmering in the sun, yet you’ve failed to pick it up. You just remain there, staring at your dirty hands and looking at the long climb behind you, rather than at the gem in front of you. Don’t just stand there staring girl. Snatch him up, honey, before some other treasure hunter does!”

  I smiled as I recalled the look in her eyes as she beseeched me not to risk ruining a potentially incredible relationship with Steve. There was a mixture of sadness lurking behind her eyes as she spoke as well, and I assumed it stemmed from the love of her life no longer walking the earth with her. It was at that moment that I realized I didn’t just need to but wanted to cleanse my soul from past muck and make room in my heart for Steve.

  I was just about to make the turn onto the main road that would take me to the freeway, lost in these thoughts and telling myself that I would conquer all these trials one step at a time and become a better human being for them, when I realized I was humming, which was something I hadn’t done since high school; and for the first time in years, it dawned on me that I was actually happy. God, it was such an incredible feeling—so foreign, so alien, and so fantastic. Could it be that this link, this deeply rooted connection I found with Steve was the culprit? I thought about that for a moment, and although our night last night was, well, quite spectacular, what I was feeling was much more intricate than that.

  It was hope.

  Hope that I could change; hope that my tainted views on humanity were wrong and that there were wonderful, kind, affectionate, and caring people still left in it; hope that I could let my internal shield crumble and feel an emotion other than hate or rage; hope that my life would no longer revolve around everything Winscott, good and bad. Most importantly, there was hope for my own redemption from the guilt-ridden nightmares through making amends to those I hurt in the past, including myself. Mrs. Milligan was right—carrying around this hate was becoming more burdensome to my psyche than the actual physical events that caused it, and I needed to let go and forgive, especially those individuals that were only riding the fringe of agony’s coattails for their silence and not the actual act. Granted, the hidden deceptions and numerous sins I uncovered about the other partners were morally reprehensible, but wasn’t my exposing them, using their own sordid lives as a lever to wrench hold over them for my own personal mental salve, just as wrong? Did my justified rage at Olin overflow my mental reservoirs and spill out through the open door into their world, causing me to stand right in beside them, which really didn’t make me any better than they were? I used my anger as some sort of blinding shield to hide behind as I wielded means and measures that were not normally part of my internal repertoire. True, Olin was a horrid, nasty man that deserved to be locked away from society and finally pay for his deplorable crimes, but what about the others? How were they any different from countless people throughout the ages that turned a blind eye when a crime was committed? Was the punishment with which I bequeathed them truly befitting their crimes of looking the other way? My initial reaction to this probing question, which I answered that night in my office, was hell yes. They deserved every single bit, but thinking about it now, I did have doubts.

  Yesterday’s discussion with Charlene about this guilt for my own actions made me mentally run for cover, but Mrs. Milligan wouldn’t let me hide behind the anger anymore. In her gentle, determined way, she made me take a hard look at the things I did and pointed out that obviously, at least subconsciously, I held deep regret for them as well. Although she used a lot of Biblical perspectives on redemption, recovery, and recompensing for things, which I still wasn’t quite sure I bought, she did make some extremely valid moral points on my behavior, and I was determined to start turning things around in my life since, as she deftly pointed out, only I had the power to do so. As we talked last night, I promised myself, and her as well, that I would start, right then, to make the most of each day and maybe work on rebuilding bridges that I had burned, even though I wasn’t entirely sure how to accomplish that, but I vowed I would try as I drifted off into heavy sleep in Steve’s arms last night.

  I smiled as I felt peace and tranquility wash over me, mixed with a huge dollop of desire as my thoughts wandered over to St
eve again. Something about him—something I was unable to pinpoint and name yet surely felt—made me not only feel safe, but accepted. He accepted me for all my faults, all the broken pieces of my tangled life, and all my scarred, heavy baggage. He knew what junk I brought into this relationship with me and willingly seemed to pick up some of the bags and walk alongside me, not even batting an eye at their weight in his hands. When he looked at me last night, I swore I felt his eyes pierce all the way inside me, their intense heat turning my shield into a pile of melted metal. God, what a man he was. I had to stop thinking about him and focus on my driving before I ended my ride at the base of a tree.

  All that giddy, school-girl glee had caused a stupid grin that was plastered across my face, but when my phone rang and I saw that it was Steve calling, my euphoria came to an abrupt end. I answered and heard the edginess in Steve’s voice after the perfunctory greetings.

  “Where are you?” he asked, a bit too warily.

  “Gee, miss me already?” I said, a bit unsure by the tone in his voice as to whether I should be scared or not, so I tried to lighten the conversation, more for myself than for him.

  “I’m serious, Audra. Where are you?”

  Irritated now with his tone and secrecy, I replied, “About a half mile from the interstate. Why? What’s wrong, Steve? Please, tell me. You’re officially freaking me out here.”

  Steve cleared his throat and said, his voice softer than before, “You need to turn around and come back to my place.”

  Incredulous, I blurted, “I am doing nothing except remaining on my course to Phoenix until you tell me what is going on!”

  There was a brief pause, and finally, he said, “That early call to work this morning was about Robert. We just found his body, Audra, and we’re almost positive he didn’t die from natural causes.”

  Oh shit.

  MY MORNING STARTED OUT exceptionally bad for a Thursday. The air conditioner croaked sometime during the night in our building, and although Jeff—and other hot, irritated tenants as well, I’m sure—called building maintenance several times, he was greeted by the sound of the droning answering machine, informing callers to leave a message. After his fourth phone call, Jeff left them one long, rambling message that I am sure the recipient would never forget, especially if they spoke Italian.