Eviscerating the Snake - The Complete Trilogy

by Ashley Fontainne

  Motherfucker.

  I shook off the old, primal fear that his presence created and took a deliberate, cleansing breath. His death was not part of my plan, but hey, I already killed one Stevenson, and since he had lived long past his expiration date, why not another? He could just make the trip back home with me and Audra and be buried in the soil his feet tread upon all his life. He would have company in his final resting place. He and Audra could rot together.

  Holding my breath, I took one final glimpse to see if he was holding any sort of weapon, relieved to see that he wasn’t. Taking a few steps back, I eased the hammer back and steadied my feet, then jerked the door open.

  “Well, hello there Mikey. Come on in and join the party,” I said, pointing the gun straight at dead center in his chest. I hadn’t believed that it was possible for his face to become any paler, but staring down the barrel of a gun sure did seem to make him look like a ghost.

  “Your chickens are coming home to roost, Cassandra,” he said, his voice steady but the fear behind his eyes betraying him.

  I stepped aside and motioned for him to come in, the gun never wavering. He took a few tentative steps inside then stopped.

  “Well, chicken just happens to be on the menu for tonight! One rooster is already cooked; looks like yours is next. Now, move!”

  His face crumpled with dejection when he heard the door lock behind him. I kicked him in the ass hard enough to push him forward but not pitch him face-first onto the floor.

  “Keep walking, old man. Straight ahead into the living room,” I growled.

  When he reached the entrance to the living room, he froze in horror at the massacre. I kicked him again then shoved him down on the couch.

  “I recall you being an avid hunter, Mikey, so why the sudden aversion to blood?” I said, moving over to the tape that was lying in the middle of the floor. I tossed it over to him and it landed with a small thud on the couch. He never said a word, his tongue locked in debilitating terror.

  “Well, after all this time, I figured you would have something to say to me. Since you don’t, I’ll give you something to occupy your feeble little mind with. Tie yourself up.”

  It took him several minutes and attempts but he finally finished successfully wrapping his wrists together. He was sweating profusely, his cotton-white hair plastered to his forehead. When done, he averted his eyes from mine and stared at what was left of Eric, the horror he was thinking evidenced across his brow.

  “I’m so sorry, Mikey. Where are my manners? Goodness, guess all these years away from Havensport caused a momentary lapse in social graces. I haven’t even asked you how you’ve been. Of course, that might be because it’s apparent now that you have been hunting me, but besides that, how’s tricks?”

  He focused his watery eyes on me, their dark brown spheres cloudy from age and yet still pulsating with fury as he stared into mine. The light tremors of his muscles were enough for me to see from across the room. Finally, the stare down was over. He cleared his throat and spoke.

  “I knew. I always knew. Frank may not have been a saint, but I raised him right. He would never kill someone, and ain’t no way he would have taken his own life. It’s a sin.”

  “Well, your intuition was right on one thing: I am alive. But on the others? You’re way off. Frank was a violent abuser that stripped my innocence with each spatter of blood he knocked out of me. Every cut, bruise, chokehold, body slam against the wall, backhand across the face, kick in the stomach, broke my spirit.” My timber rose as the memories and old anger flared.

  “His favorite spot was in the stomach. God, how many times I felt his fist or his foot in my abdomen! I bet he never told you that you lost a grandchild that way, did he?” I watched for a response and smiled when surprise registered across his face, followed by sadness and regret.

  “Yeah, how ’bout them apples, huh, Mikey? You were going to be a Grampa, but your son killed the child inside of me when he mistook my belly for a soccer ball.”

  His jaw trembled, and I expected to see a few tears form, but none came.

  “You lying whore,” he sneered.

  “Whore? Whore?”I shouted, unable to curtail my emotions. “I was a naïve, sweet girl when I met him. A virgin on my wedding night. Yeah, I waited for Mr. Right, just like I had been taught my whole life. And what did I get for playing by the rules? A body full of bruises and a dead baby. Not exactly marital bliss, wouldn’t you agree?” I yelled, moving closer to him, barely able to contain my shaking hand from blowing his face off.

  “Even if what you say is true—which I doubt comin’ from the likes of you—it didn’t give you the right to kill my boy. You coulda just left. Haven’t you ever heard of divorce?”

  “Oh, I was well warned not to try, Mikey. The night I lost the baby was the worst beating of all and came after I had gone to the police station to report him. With all the people your cash controlled, I can’t imagine you didn’t hear about that.”

  He didn’t respond, his eyes looking at me, but they were reliving visions of the past. After my tirade, I was a little calmer and had regained a modicum of composure.

  “So, I assume you saw my picture on the news and, what, came all the way to Arizona to kill me? If so, you suck at planning this kind of thing out. I will admit you have some skills since you tracked down where I live, a feat that has yet to be accomplished by the press. I can only assume you followed me home from work, which means you have a vehicle somewhere. I didn’t see it in the driveway, so where is it? Did you leave your means of killing me hiding in it? I mean, seriously, what was your next step going to be when you came face to face with me? Say hi, then run back to your car and grab a gun? Tsk, tsk, Mikey. Poor planning indeed.”

  While talking, I made my way over to him and checked his tape, making sure he bound himself tight. Satisfied that he was secure, I stepped over a huge dollop of Eric’s brains and sat down on the piano bench. He remained silent, unwilling to answer my questions.

  “What’s the matter, Mikey? Cat got your tongue? Listen, if you are wondering when I am going to kill you, rest assured that you have a few days of life remaining before I end it. Your presence here was not even in the remotest recesses of my mind and sort of puts a crimp in my grand scheme of things. I have no intention of adding your DNA to my little crime scene, since that will just open up a can of worms that I prefer to remain sealed. On the flip side of you showing up, once you are disposed of, I will never have to worry about looking over my shoulder ever again since all ties to my past will be gone.”

  His eyes focused back on me, the anger seeping through his voice.

  “You’re as crazy as a loon.”

  “No, see, now that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not crazy; I’m just enraged. There is a big difference. If I were certifiable, you would already be sportin’ a gaping hole in your head like my friend Eric over there.”

  “So, what was his trumped up crime?” he said, glancing back over at Eric.

  I followed his gaze, my eyes settling on the mess that once had been a lovely face.

  “Oh, him? Well, he never beat the shit out of me like Frank did, but he did betray my heart, all for the love of money and strange pussy. Believe me, he more than reaped what wild oats he sowed.”

  “So you have a God complex now? What gives you the right to be judge, jury, and executioner? Whatever happened to forgiveness?”

  “Forgiveness? Now I’m going to question your sanity. You’re sitting in the living room of the woman that killed your son over forty years ago when you should be enjoying retirement, not a care in the world except when your next bowel movement and bath from a sexy nurse will be, yet here you are. Obviously, you have no right to discuss forgiveness with me.”

  “That is where you are wrong, Cassandra,” he said, and I felt a cold shiver run through me, unaccustomed to being addressed by my given name. “Forgiveness must be granted only to those who ask for it. I don’t recall you ever askin’ me to forgive you for ki
llin’ my boy. You just ran.”

  “Kill or be killed, Mikey. That’s the first law of survival. You can thank your violent son for teaching me that harsh little lesson. I survived because I refused to be the prey anymore. It’s much easier being the predator.”

  As I stared at his withered frame, trussed up and captured on my couch, I felt the simmering anger bubbling underneath the surface, making my hands shake with irritation. Even though our little bantering session was rather entertaining on some strange level, I didn’t need, nor want, the problem of having yet another body to dispose of in my house. Dragging his old ass back to North Carolina alongside Audra was not going to be a pleasant trip. Earlier, my gut instincts had been to silence him forever with a clean shot between his eyes, but I didn’t want his blood, or his body, to be found inside. The police would eventually figure out who he was, then investigate why in the hell he was in Arizona.

  The whole point of my carefully contrived plot was that the police would assume from the evidence that Eric killed me and Audra out of anger. I planned on leaving traces of our blood in and around the trunk of his car, giving the impression that our bodies had been inside at some point. When neither of our bodies were ever located (since I would be gone and Audra would be six feet under in the middle of nowhere in North Carolina), I hoped the police would assume Eric disposed of us before blowing his head off. Of course, that plan was shot all to hell when that bag of dusty bones walked up to my door. The discovery of his body, if I killed him in Phoenix, would lead back to my real identity, and that would demolish my ability to stay hidden under my real name. All that aside, either decision I made still left his vehicle out there somewhere.

  Then the thought hit me. I could just transfer the few items I had stowed away in Daddy’s old truck and put them in his, then drive to Havensport in his vehicle. The VIN number had long since been removed from the pile of rust in my garage, and the tags on it were registered under the same sham company as the one that owned the apartment that Eric and I shared (well, did share), so the cops wouldn’t bat an eye at another vehicle in my garage.

  Yes, that was it! Now, all I needed to do was get ol’ Mikey to tell me what he was driving and where it was parked.

  While I slightly zoned out while contemplating all of those thoughts, I failed to notice that the old fucker moved to the edge of the couch, his head resting on the armrest, his body twisted in a strange angel. If he was trying to escape, the poor bastard was moving in the wrong direction.

  “You aren’t contributing much to the conversation, Mikey. That’s just plain rude. And here I thought you were a true southerner—a gentlemen to the core. But, I will let your infringement on manners pass if you just hand over the keys to your ride. I think you and the other passenger will probably enjoy riding in it rather than in my old truck unless, of course, you rented a compact.”

  I stood over him and noticed that he reeked of old man stink, his filthy aroma rising to my nose quickly. Even though I had turned the air conditioner down to sixty five degrees earlier, sweat was dripping down his face. I didn’t relish the idea of patting him down to find the keys, and a sweet sigh of relief passed through my lips when I noticed their bulge in his front shirt pocket.

  “Ah, never mind. Found them.”

  He tried to move away from me, so I waived the gun in his face. “Uh uh…hold still now. I would hate for the gun to go off prematurely. I know how you men hate having things erupt early.”

  He responded by spitting in my face. The sticky goo landed on my cheek, and suddenly, I saw nothing but white haze. When my vision cleared, he was lying on the couch face down and unconscious, a trickle of blood oozing down the side of his head from the four inch gash on his temple. I was straddling him, the butt of the gun covered in crimson. I climbed off of him and spit back, landing a heavy dollop of my own saliva right next to the wound on his head.

  “You are the second Stevenson to spit on me, and you will be the second one I kill. And to think, I did feel just a shred of remorse at having to end your life, since technically, I have only killed those that hurt me. That wad of mucous you lobbed at me terminated any remorse I might feel during my nights alone.”

  Satisfied he was out cold, I ran through the house to the front door, then cracked it just a sliver and looked outside, scouting the area for any other surprises that might be lurking about, thankful that I saw none. Unsure as to how much time I had left before Audra arrived, I ran down the driveway and out to the street, looking both ways to try and locate his vehicle. I clicked the key fob a few times and smiled when the small, white SUV about half a block down beeped in response.

  Perfect! Plenty of room to stash a couple of bodies.

  Sprinting down the deadly quiet street, I climbed behind the wheel and started the engine, then drove my new chariot up the drive and parked by the front door. After checking to make sure that my newest guest was still in la-la land, I ran out to the garage and grabbed all the bags that were stashed in the truck and went back to the SUV. Once secured in the back seat, I paused and listened, hearing nothing out of the ordinary.

  Once back inside, I closed and locked the front door, then went back into the living room. The man I never considered seeing again was still out cold, the blood leaking from his wound at a very fast pace. The kidney shaped blob on the couch was slowly making its way down to the carpet. Damn, I should have been more in control of my emotions! It was time to clean the mess up and squirrel away his body in the SUV before Audra arrived. I retrieved a hand towel from the kitchen and came back to him, holding it to his head to stem the flow.

  “Wakey wakey. Time to go for a walk. I have no desire to carry your sweaty ass to the truck.”

  He moaned in response and tried to move his head away from me. His eyes fluttered a few times and finally opened, the fresh horror of his situation emanating from them.

  The tinkling of the doorbell made his body jerk, and I could see the relief across his face. Before he could make a sound, I picked up the tape and tore a piece off, then smashed it across his mouth.

  Damn! I wanted to get him secured in the vehicle first!

  “Move, or make one peep, and it will be the last thing you do. Understand?”

  The fright behind his eyes told me he did.

  I turned, put the gun in my back waistband, and moved toward the front door, calling back over my shoulder.

  “Well shit, guess you will get to meet your grave-mate yet. I was hoping to leave you as a surprise for her later, but we don’t always get what we want, do we? Flexibility in response to difficult situations—that’s the key to life. Be right back,” I said before noticing that he was out cold again.

  It was game time, and even though the plays hadn’t been executed in the perfect unison I had envisioned, I still held the winning hand.

  LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  I WIPED MY EYES for the umpteenth time in the short space of three hours while Steve drove. After we left Merriweather Funeral Home, neither of us had spoken a word. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just necessary, as we both were lost in our own thoughts. Steve kept one hand on the wheel and the other gently held mine, his fingertips intermittently stroking my palm.

  Our second funeral in less than a year, both deaths stemming from the deep-seated madness that seemed to adhere to every crevice at Winscott, infecting those that walked its halls. When we first arrived at the service, I feared being accosted by accusations from Jeff or Gabrielle’s family, and I thought I was ready to handle that until Steve actually helped me out of the car and we walked in. My racing heart was quieted, however, by the hugs and warm greetings from not only Jeff but also Gabby’s mother and father. When I realized that I seemed to be the only one harboring the tremendous sense of guilt for Gabby’s death, and that her loved ones held no animosity toward me, the heavy load seemed to lighten briefly during the beautiful service.

  Unlike the last funeral I attended of a woman whose life had been cut short from the Winscott cu
rse, when the pastor standing behind the podium spoke, I listened. His eloquent words floated around us all, enveloping us in a warm sensation of being united in our sorrow, yet hopeful for peace tomorrow. While he spoke, the vision of my otherworldly meeting with Gina and Jesse sprang forth, and I felt strange yet peaceful moment of clarity when the voice of Gina resounded in my head.

  “Take care of Steve.”

  I gripped Steve’s hand more tightly and put my sunglasses back on. The pain would ease, the pastor said, just like any deep wound. Eventually, it would heal, and although an ugly scar would be the daily reminder of the injury, the ache would no longer be there if we set our sights on the happiness in our lives and focused on love rather than hate. And that was exactly what I was going to do. It was over, the final goodbye spoken through tear soaked words, the monsters all slain and no longer lingering in our closets.

  “So, do I need to get all knightly at dinner and formally request from your father the hand of fair maiden Audra, or should I just blurt out, ‘Hey, guess what? We’re getting hitched in Tahiti in three weeks, want to come?’”

  I looked over and smiled at him, letting a slight laugh escape. I knew the service had been hard on him as well, since it no doubt reminded him about his first wife and her tragic death. His attempt at humor was a typical male response to pain and one that I wish I could adopt more often.

  “I believe if you aim for something in the middle, you will be right on the mark. Don’t worry. He doesn’t have a gun.”

  “Oh, but I do! And a large switchblade in my pocket, you know, just in case he gets all paternal or asks for a heavy dowry or something. I’m a poor cop. I can’t afford an expensive bride.”