Gilchrist

by Christian Galacar

  “I didn’t mean to suggest anything or sound ungrateful. I truly do appreciate you offering what… well, I guess offering what you saw.” Corbin looked at him and nodded a vague apology. “But if not psychic, what would you call it, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what’s it like?”

  Peter sighed, thinking it over, but also wanting very much not to discuss the subject at all. It felt too fantastical. “I’ve always had a knack for finding things people lose. Ever since I was a kid, really. Even if it was a random woman at the market who lost her car keys, somehow, if I just focused a little, I could find them sitting in a crate of lemons back in the store. Or if my dad lost his watch, I could tell him it was on the shelf above his workbench in the garage without even having to go out there… and I’d know I would be right. But I never thought it was anything special… a parlor trick at best.” He paused a beat before adding: “Then I came to Gilchrist, and things got weirder.”

  “So what… you focus on what you want to find, and then you get a vision or something?” Corbin said earnestly.

  “It’s more like being in a large crowd of people and everyone is talking. But your eyes are closed, and you can’t open them to see. If you don’t pay attention to anything in particular, all the voices around you just blend together to white noise. But if you focus, you can grab on to a conversation, hone in, and hear it clearly. And if you listen really closely, you can start to feel your way to the source of the voices. That’s sort of what it’s like for me. I focus on a conversation and follow the voices until I find what’s talking.”

  “Is that what happened when you bumped into Ricky?” Corbin asked, dodging a rock on the riverbank.

  “No. What happened with Ricky was new,” Peter said. “That was like being in that crowd of voices… but for the first time, I could see. My eyes weren’t closed anymore, I guess.”

  Peter thought of what Kevin had said at dinner on Monday about opening his other eyes, and smirked. The little dude knew all about it.

  “I haven’t figured out what the hell I’m going to tell Grace about her mother,” Corbin said, then hesitated. “You got any kids?”

  Peter heard the hope in Corbin’s voice, speaking about his daughter in a way that kept her alive in his mind. That was good, but also dangerous.

  “I had a son, but he died.”

  Corbin turned sharply to him. “Aw, jeez. I’m—”

  “Please don’t try and cheer me up again,” Peter said, shielding his eyes from Corbin’s flashlight. “I don’t think I could take another one of your pep talks. No offense.”

  Corbin laughed good-naturedly. “None taken. Where are you from, Peter? You a loc—”

  “Do you mind if we knock off the small talk?” Peter said in a tired tone. Not rude but honest. “It’s nothing personal. I just don’t feel up to it right now.”

  “I understand.”

  And Peter believed that the Gilchrist chief of police did, in fact, understand. He found the man’s brute integrity comforting in a way.

  They walked in silence for another five minutes. The sound of their collective footfalls snapping damp twigs and crushing wet leaves became their conversation. And when the woods opened up, Peter shifted a hundred feet or so to the left, but stayed close enough to keep Corbin’s flashlight in view.

  5

  Ricky had fallen asleep in the corner after he was through having his fun for the night. He was snoring, leaning upright against the wall, the pistol sticking out of his waistband. He had promised her a second round of celebrating in the morning, followed by a grand finale he said she would never forget. The kerosene lantern sitting on the overturned crate Ricky had been using as a table flickered dirty yellow light around the shed. Grace had gotten used to the smell of the dead animals, but seeing them pinned to the wall reminded her it was still all around her. And with the tape he had put across her mouth, she could only breathe through her nose.

  That bastard.

  Grace watched Ricky closely, timing every movement with his snores to cover any trace of sound she might make. The doorway in front of her was a rectangle of black.

  The ropes were tight, but with little lateral jerks, she managed to slide her hand down the horizontal pipe to where it made a ninety-degree turn and ran down into the floor. The elbow fitting had a sharp, rusted edge. She maneuvered the rope tied around her wrist so that a side of it was pressed against the sharp pipe fitting. Then she started to saw it back and forth in small movements. Slow and steady.

  Her eyes stayed on Ricky. She watched his chest slowly rise and fall. She found the rhythm and made sure to stay in time.

  Inhale: saw.

  Exhale: be still.

  Inhale: saw, saw, saw.

  Exhale: be still, be still, be so still.

  She looked at his disgusting mouth and could taste the cigarettes. The thought of it made her feel sick to her stomach, but she couldn’t worry about that. If she didn’t at least try, then she would be dead by this time tomorrow.

  Inhale: saw.

  Exhale: be still.

  He had said he was going to kill her, and she believed him. Her foot throbbed and burned with fiery pain. And she hurt in new places. For the most part, she was numb, and that was okay. She thought it was probably for the best right now. But she wondered if she somehow made it out of that shed alive, would that feeling, or lack thereof, ever fade?

  Grace continued to work at the rope, minding the rhythm, and watching the fine cotton filaments begin to fray. Little by little. Bit by bit.

  Inhale: saw.

  Exhale…

  6

  Peter’s walkie spoke to him from inside his jacket.

  Corbin’s voice: “We’ve gone about three or four miles. I think we’re coming up on the back side of John Marini’s cornfields. Have a moment, fellas.”

  “All right. Ain’t seen nothin over here yet. But we still got a ways to go,” Benny said.

  Peter pulled the radio from his jacket, fumbled with it for a second, then depressed the button. “Nothing over here.”

  “Okay,” Corbin said. “Smoke em if you got em.”

  Peter tucked his walkie away.

  That was the fourth radio check-in, which put them at about the two-hour mark. And each time, Corbin’s voice seemed to lose a little more enthusiasm. Peter looked in his direction and saw Corbin’s light still about a hundred feet out.

  Peter trained his flashlight on his watch. It was five past three. They were in the heart of darkness. It doesn’t get any more night than this, he thought.

  Luckily the rain had fallen away to a fine mist. Or perhaps this deep in the woods, the canopy was sparing them from the big stuff. He shined his flashlight around and spotted a tree stump at the top of a small hill ahead of him. It looked like a good place to sit and rest for a few minutes while they took a break. He needed it, too. The boots he had on loan from the Gilchrist Police Department were about a size too big, and his heels were blistering badly.

  He went to the stump. When he reached the top of the hill, something below in the distance caught his eye. It was faint at first, but he turned off the flashlight, and within twenty seconds he could see a small structure about thirty yards away. It looked like a little shed, with a single dimly lit window. His heart fluttered.

  “Holy shit,” he said under his breath, fumbling for his radio. He got it out and spoke softly, dropping away from the top of the hill to shield his voice. “I got something, Corbin. Come to me. Stay quiet. We’re close by.”

  “I can’t see you,” Corbin responded, a radio whisper.

  Peter turned his flashlight back on and waved it down low.

  “What is it?” Benny said.

  “Hold on. Stay quiet,” Peter said.

  He looked in Corbin’s direction. A flashlight beam began to move toward him. After a minute, he heard the sound of his footfalls. Then Corbin was standing in front of him, the shotgun still resting back on his shoulder. His fa
ce was a wet stone.

  “Something talking to you, Peter?” he said, breathing heavily.

  “It’s nothing like that. Follow me,” Peter said in a low voice. “And shut off your light. Maybe kill the radios, too, just in case.”

  They went back up the hill, flashlights off, radios silent. Peter showed him.

  “Holy shit,” Corbin said, and crouched.

  Peter did the same, resting his arm on the tree stump for balance. “Yeah. My sentiments exactly. What is it?”

  “I think it’s one of Marini’s old pump sheds. He stopped pulling from the river ten years ago after he dug his retention pond.” Corbin turned to Peter, astounded. Renewed hope slowly emerged across his face. “Son of a bitch, I don’t believe it. You were right.”

  “Looks like someone’s home,” Peter said.

  “Sure does.”

  “Think it’s them?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Corbin rose off his haunches. “Stay here.”

  7

  Corbin brought the shotgun off his shoulder as he crept down the hill to the pump shed. He kept one hand on the forestock, and the other ready on the cold curve of the trigger. His back had broken out in a nervous, prickling sweat, his skin in welts of gooseflesh. He was mindful of every footstep, making sure to be as quiet as possible. The soughs of wind provided some cover from the rigid silence of night. The closer he got, the stronger the awful smell became.

  He made his way to the small window in the side of the shed. When he reached it, he peered inside. His body tensed, another dose of adrenaline surging through him. His daughter sat in the middle of the room. She had tape across her mouth, and her arms were tied to a pipe out in front of her like one of those medieval torture devices. She was working her wrist against something.

  Attagirl, he thought. Then he noticed her swollen, black-and-blue foot nearly bursting out of her shoe and clenched his teeth so hard he was sure they would all shatter.

  His first reaction was to go to her, to save her, but he fought the instinct. It might’ve been the hardest thing he had ever had to do, short of pulling that sheet back and identifying Meryl. But he couldn’t be hasty. The final moments were always when tragedy struck. People seemed to abandon all common sense in the face of intense emotion, and that was often the last mistake they ever made.

  He surveyed the room through the window. A small lantern. A duffel bag full of canned food. A few bottles of booze. Some empty beer cans. There was what looked like a folded wool horse blanket in the corner. He found the source of the rotten smell. The walls were all covered in dissected animal carcasses.

  Surrounded by dead animals…

  But he didn’t see Ricky anywhere. That was either a good thing, or a—

  It felt like someone punched him in the shoulder blade. His hand squeezed involuntarily on the shotgun’s trigger, and it fired off a round into the dirt, then dropped to the ground. His back began to burn and ache, sharp pain traveling up his neck and into the crown of his head. His right arm lost all its strength. It coursed with painful pins and needles, like little jolts of electricity. Something was wrong.

  “I go to take a shit, and looky what I found. Come to join my big send-off, Chief,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

  Ricky pressed a cold piece of steel behind Corbin’s left ear, digging it hard into bone. He didn’t need to turn around to know that it was a pistol.

  8

  Grace had pretended to be asleep when Ricky woke up and went outside. She didn’t know where he was headed, but once the sound of his footsteps faded, she went to work double-time on the rope. It was risky, she knew, because he would be able to see her well before she could see him returning. But this was her last chance.

  (now or never)

  If she could at least get an arm free and keep it hidden, then maybe she could grab the gun from his waistband when he wasn’t expecting it. If he leaned down to try to kiss her again, she would let him. And when he was off his guard, she would bite down on his lip, tear it off if she could, and at the same time, grab the gun. Then she would aim at the center of mass just like her dad had taught her and squeeze—not pull—the trigger, until all the bullets were gone and Ricky Osterman was dead. Her biggest concern was shooting using only one hand—she had never done that before—but as she saw it, that was her best and only option, a risk she needed to take. Plaguing her like a cancer in the back of her mind was the knowledge that plans never went the way they were intended. She would cross that bridge when she came to it, though.

  She had just gotten through the rope on her right hand when she heard the gunshot and the commotion outside. Before she could decide what to do, her father appeared in the doorway. One hand was on top of his head, his elbow winged out, but the other arm hung limply by his side. His face looked pained.

  Ricky stood behind him, gouging him forward with his pistol. “I caught us some din-din.” He laughed, and jabbed Corbin in the back again. “Move. Come on. Family reunion time.”

  Grace’s eyes peeled wide, and she screamed muffled sounds through her taped mouth. But her mind said this: Dad! No! Don’t hurt him, you psycho! Then deeper down, her subconscious answered: You are supposed to save me, Dad. You are my protector. Do something!

  Nothing made sense anymore. But through it all, she forced herself not to move her freed hand. It was the only thing she had left.

  “It’s okay, Grace,” her father said in a calm voice. “Don’t be scared, baby.”

  Ricky laughed again. “Yeah, sure, everything looks okay, doesn’t it?” He pulled Corbin’s service weapon from his hip holster and tucked it behind his back.

  “What do you want, Ricky?” Corbin said.

  “I want you to go kneel next to Gracie. We’re all gonna have a little fun now.”

  “It’s Grace, not Gracie. Or are you too stupid to get her name right?” Corbin said.

  “Shut up! I know what it is, asshole.” Ricky brought his arm up and cracked her father on the back of his head.

  Corbin dropped to his knees and fell forward; only one arm came out to brace his fall. Then Grace saw why his other arm hung useless the way it did. The handle of a hunting knife protruded from her father’s shoulder blade. For a moment it looked fake because she couldn’t see any blood on his green raincoat, only tiny beads of rain. But she looked farther down and saw little rivulets of red on the side of his pants.

  He looked at her as he crawled toward her. Something about his actions seemed deliberate. His eyes looked hard at her hand, the one that was free. Then he looked at her. “It’ll be okay, Grace. I swear it’ll be okay. Don’t be scared. I’m hurt, but I’ll be fine. You hear me?”

  She looked at him, terrified.

  “Do you hear me?” her father repeated.

  She nodded.

  “How sweet. Yeah, everyone’s gonna be fine. Kneel,” Ricky said, training the pistol on Corbin. “How many more of you are there? Don’t tell me none, because I ain’t stupid.”

  “None,” Corbin said. He turned around and knelt in front of Grace, looking up at Ricky. “Wait. I’m wrong. It’s a dozen. Or maybe two dozen. I can’t remember.”

  Her hand was maybe ten inches from the knife handle. It was shiny black with a silver butt. She looked at it, and her heart began to thump in her chest. Stay calm, she told herself. You wanted one chance, and this is it.

  Ricky wound up and kicked her father in the ribs. He stepped back and pressed his forehead against the side of the gun. “I know he is. I know,” he said, talking to no one. He tapped the pistol against his head. Then he looked toward the doorway, one eye staying on Corbin. “Try and come in here, and I’ll shoot em both!” he yelled to the night outside. “You hear me?”

  “Who are you talking to? There’s no one out there,” Corbin said.

  “Don’t fucking test me.” Ricky pointed the gun at Corbin’s face. “You know, I was going to kill you both. But I think I’ll just kill you. And right in front of your daughter, okay? Let h
er live and think about it. See how she copes with witnessing her old man getting his brains blown out. All her fault, too.” He looked at Grace. “It’s all your fault. Do you understand that? He came out here for you, and now he’s going to be dead. Blood’s on your hands, bitch.”

  “Grace,” Corbin said. “I love you. You hear me? Don’t listen to him.”

  She nodded.

  Her father looked at the empty doorway, his face sprouting anger. “Hey! I told you guys to stay back. I’m handling this.”

  She didn’t quite understand. Then she thought she did.

  Ricky flinched, looking sideways at the door for a fraction of a second to see who Corbin was talking to. But that sliver of time was all there was to act. Grace reached forward, grabbed the handle of the knife, and pulled it from her father’s back.

  He winced, then lunged forward.

  “What the fuck!” Ricky steeled his arm, re-fixing his aim. But Corbin had already reached up and grabbed his wrist, dragging him down to close the distance.

  Grace pulled herself up on her good foot, cocked her arm back and drove the knife down as hard as she could into Ricky’s forearm. A seam of white-and-pink flesh exploded open as the tip of the blade slashed deeply across his arm, exposing two bulging cross-sections of tendon, vein, and muscle. She almost cut into her father’s thigh on the follow-through.

  Ricky screamed, his face contorting. It didn’t sound human. He cried one word: “Mother!”

  Corbin jumped up, his hand still clamped around Ricky’s wrist. He brought his head back and smashed it into Ricky’s face. Gouts of blood spouted from Ricky’s mashed nose and fell to the floor.

  The gun went off—four shots in rapid succession. But they all fired into the floor or the ceiling as Corbin controlled Ricky’s arm.

  Debris rained down, landing on the back of Grace’s neck, some in her eyes.

  Corbin drove his head into Ricky’s face again, then twice. It sounded like meat being tenderized… if the meat groaned and grunted when getting hit.