by Mira Gibson
She was afraid to imagine, so she stopped herself, and that feat was enough to prevent her from answering.
“You’ve got all these ideas in your head about what we are and what we do and you’re so close, aren’t you? At least that’s what you think, that you’ve almost got it nailed down.”
“You killed Charlie, didn’t you? You left him down here. That’s what I’m smelling, isn’t it?”
She felt the earthen wall at her back and pressing against it, made her way to her feet, though doing so sent her head reeling. To steady herself, she dug her fingers into the packed soil of the wall, forcing the air in and out of her lungs, though it was so rank it nauseated her.
“What are you smelling?” he challenged.
“Death.”
“How would you know what death smells like?” he countered as if anticipating her response piqued his interest.
She was quick to point out, “You exhumed and left my dead dog in my living room,” but her tone—wobbly and thin—didn’t deliver the blow she’d intended. “Robinson had a definite smell to him as well.”
Her conviction broke when she felt the spindly tickle of something skittering over the back of her hand, which made her squeal, flicking her wrist to get it off. The second she had, she realized she’d been bitten. Her hand was stinging and when she rubbed it to work the prick away, she felt a lump forming on her skin.
“You’ll want to keep away from the walls,” he said. “The place is crawling with spiders.”
Horrified, she stepped from the wall, staring at it over her shoulder with wide eyes. She saw a spider tucked in a crack. And the longer she scanned the wall, the more she spotted, skirting from one crack to the next. The back of her hand was growing numb and when she looked at it she noticed a rash forming.
Advancing on her so fast it caused a surge of adrenaline to shoot through her veins, gasp hitching in her throat, Peter veered as he reached her, leaning around and pinching a spider off the wall.
When he eased back he was too close for comfort, examining the twitching arachnid with such intrigue that he didn’t object or even look up as she took cautious sidesteps away from him.
She kept her eyes on him, studying how Peter handled the thin, brown spider, and it occurred to her that he was admiring it.
“They have a bad reputation, you know,” he said, offhandedly. “Rock spiders. Have you heard the expression?”
Only once, she thought, and it hadn't made any sense.
“Like these creatures, the term migrated here, adapted to the environment. Prison jargon,” he went on, ruminating woolly explanations that seemed to have little context. “It’s what they call child molesters. You know...” he trailed off, smiling at her in a way that made the hairs on the back of her neck prick up, “because they’re always getting into small cracks.”
“I’d like to go now.”
“Go? No, Gertrude this is simply a detour on our route to the station. You’ve been arrested. Nothing’s changed, except that I’m hoping you’ll remember a thing or two. They say the smell of a place can bring it all back. Is it?”
What kind of sick game was this?
And why was he winning? The very notion that she might be able to remember the past by simply being down here was mind-bending and soon she couldn’t think straight.
“How’s your hand?”
When she glanced down at, the eerie power of his suggestion having compelled her to do so as though she were an impressionable child, she discovered the rash was spreading down her fingers and up her forearm.
“Most people are allergic,” he mentioned with fascination. “But there’s a shot that can clear it up within a few hours.”
A shot? Suddenly, her many visits to the doctor growing up, Doris feverish and lying in bed, the incredible guilt that had plagued her having left her sister behind with those people, bubbled up from her subconscious bringing with it more details—firearms going off in the house, gunshots resonating through the forest where no one was around to hear them, her father raging, waving his weapon, dragging Doris out the back door, her mother cooing as though Doris was merely in the throes of a childish tantrum, Gertrude holding her head as she cowered in a hunch between the couch and the wall, praying this would be over, but knowing if it had happened a thousand times, it would continue a thousand times more.
Peter flicked the spider to the ground then brushed his hand against his slacks, angling his dark eyes on her and stirring up the blackest dread in her gut, as she slowly backed around, circling away from him, terror heightening, panic ratcheting up her spine, though she was certain not to make any sudden movements.
Pivoting as he watched her, he explained, “The rash is the most mild symptom. Makes a person ill. An infestation can kill a crop of plants. Some people lose their hair. It starts falling out in chunks. It’s because their saliva is poisonous. But I’ve never had a problem.”
The image of Zhana’s hair was a starburst in her mind’s-eye, but the woman’s plastic grin morphed into her mother’s face—Marsha combing her brown hair, clumps of it pulling out with the comb’s teeth, her mother grimacing, horrified to find another bald patch; she’d wrapped her hair in a silken handkerchief and poured herself another drink, immune to Doris’ tormented wailing muffled on the other side of the wall.
“But you had a problem, didn’t you Gertrude? And you’re sister did too. She was sick a lot, wasn’t she?”
She whispered, “No.”
“Yes, she was.”
“Stop it,” she said, her voice light as air.
“It’ll never stop, Gertrude. It never has. Not after you moved. Not after you went back for Doris. Not after you drove back to the Inman’s like a damned fool. You can’t stop this and you can’t escape it, not unless you choose between prison and death.”
“No,” but the word came as faint exhaling. “You killed Maude,” she said in a desperate attempt to anchor herself before the memories pulled her under. “We have enough evidence. You’ll be locked up, a rock spider behind bars. The inmates will tear you apart.”
“You know, I’ve always felt bad for you, Gertrude. You know why?”
She was shaking her head, her vision having gone soft. She was slipping away.
“Because,” he said, leaning in close. She could smell his sour breath invading her face, “You were the most willing. You thought you could save the others by volunteering yourself. Roberta’s the same way. But Doris never was. You’re glad she’s dead, aren’t you? It gives you relief, doesn’t it? Because you know she can’t get hurt anymore where she is. Because you know you don’t have to keep being a martyr.”
She tried to deny it, to scream No, but nothing came out except tears that stung her eyes and dampened her cheeks.
“Let go, Gertrude,” he instructed with such a soothing tone she found herself trusting it. “Shatter. And you won’t have to go to prison. You can join Wanda and make art all day in a drugged, peaceful haze. It can all be over.”
She was slipping away.
And then she was gone.
Just like that.
Floating deep beneath the surface of reality, the night, the confrontation, the car accident, came rushing back.
She remembered all that she had forgotten.
Every. Last. Detail.
She’d found Doris in the bathroom. It had been early evening and the stark, orange sun was slicing sideways through the window, setting Doris in fiery light where she sat on the tiles, one arm draped over the edge of the tub, her other hand red with blood.
It’d taken too long for Gertrude to process the injury, the razor blade on the floor, and the streaks of blood beading up along the fresh cuts on her sister’s thigh. Doris wore nothing but underpants, an old sports bra. Her forehead was dewy with sweat. Pearls of it rolled down her cheek.
She’d seen a face peering in from the window. Cat eyes and hollow cheeks and dirty blond hair, comprising a teenaged girl she didn’t know, but did, somehow, some
where deep in her mind déjà vu had been erupting. She’d chosen to forget, hadn’t she?
“What have you done to yourself?” she’d asked, dropping to her knees beside her sister, clamoring across the tiles to the cabinet beneath the sink, riffling through in a panic, grabbing rubbing alcohol and cotton balls and a first aid kit that was dusty, its supplies nearly depleted.
“I had to,” Doris had said, her voice raw and raspy, Gertrude craving a hard drink just hearing her. “We never talk about it.”
“Talk about what?” she’d demanded, impatiently.
“About them.”
Gertrude had saturated a wad of cotton balls with alcohol and managed to dab them over Doris’ cuts and though the girl winced, sucking air through her teeth in rapid gasps, the sting seemed to calm her strangely.
“That feels good,” she’d said.
It had chilled her.
“They’re going to come back for me.”
Quickly silencing her, Gertrude had said, “No they aren’t.”
“Roberta said they were coming. We have to get to Mom and Dad. We have to threaten them. We have to make them believe we’ll go to the police, get them locked up. If we put pressure on them, they’ll get the cult to back off, you know they will. You know they’re scared, too.”
“They’re not scared,” she’d said, dismissing the notion, because it would be giving Marsha and Albert far too much credit. “And they’re not coming here.”
Gertrude had locked eyes with her, studying her sister’s lashes rimmed in black liner and her intense gaze. Doris had been pleading a silent case in favor of both their lives and Gertrude, under the force of those eyes, had agreed.
“We’ll go tonight,” she’d said. “After we get you cleaned up.”
They’d practiced in the living room. They’d recited variations on what they might say to their parents, crafting the threats they would make, revising the wording and phrasing. They’d sparred to test their speeches, taking turns playing devil’s advocate, role playing so that they’d be well prepared for their parents’ responses, which could range from volatile to denial to attempted murder. Doris had proposed they record the confrontation on her cell phone just in case.
Doris and she had driven around the lake, tension rising between them, terror weaving through Gertrude’s chest like a spider’s web.
After arriving and they had entered the house, pleasantries elapsed briefly, while Marsha attempted to plow the girls with alcohol. Gertrude had accepted to calm her shaking hands, but its effects weren’t felt, not with Doris’ eyes, moonlit from where she sat in front of the window, glaring at her.
Their parents hadn’t denied it.
But though they had admitted all they’d done and Doris’ cell, hidden deep within her purse, was recording every word, Albert had a dark request.
It had been a bargain. One Gertrude begged her sister not to make. But Doris had gone with him anyway, trekking out across the field, while Gertrude waited, cringing from her mother’s slippery assurances—You girls turned out just fine.
As jarringly as the memory had sucked her in, Gertrude sprang out of it, returning to the earthen room, her vision clearing, eyes focusing on Peter and his sickening smirk.
How could she have forgotten all that? How could she have buried it as easily as Roberta hiding shirts and underpants in the dirt outside her house?
And what she and Doris had done afterwards was unfathomable.
She’d driven Doris to a bar like they’d weathered nothing stormier than a typical holiday home, like they were normal kids from a normal family with normal issues deserving of a stiff drink or two?
Peter assessed her state then told her how they would proceed.
“I’m not going to cuff you. You’re going to come willingly. We’ll get you checked into Lakes Region Mental Health. You’re going to sign all the papers.” He paused expectantly as though he needed confirmation and when she didn’t give it, he clarified. “Prison or death, Gertrude. I’m giving you a chance at a nicer prison. They have arts and crafts for fuck's sake.”
Peter shifted his weight in such a way that the gun holstered at his hip reflected torchlight into Gertrude’s eyes like a premonition.
With an air of authority, he waved her over to a ladder, which was angled up at a metal plate in the ceiling.
As soon as she stepped forward, he turned his back to ascend the ladder and it was then, without any thought, just her wild determination, that she lunged for his gun, clawing it out of the holster, gritting her teeth through the pain of his blows, his fists punching awkwardly at her neck, the side of her head, and her shoulder. She wrestled the weapon free, overcoming her aversion to the gun or the memories it stirred up, though such revelations threatened to cripple her.
She had it in her grasp, cold metal, slick with the faintest oil, but Peter was smothering her like a bear.
She screamed, fighting and jabbing and kicking as hard as she could, and in her struggle she realized death was a far more likely outcome than making it out of there alive.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Quinton sat nervously on the edge of Roberta’s bed, as Zhana walked her fingertips along a desk, strolling lazily and offering him sly glances. Whether she was taking stock of her daughter’s bedroom or him, he couldn’t decide, but she was giving him the impression she had more than a few ideas of how they might spend their unexpected time alone.
It made his stomach twist with knots.
He jolted when he heard a faint POW coming from the field and his thoughts of Roberta narrowed into a razor’s edge.
Zhana didn’t appear to have heard it. She was going on about her mother and how she'd been a wonderful woman, as she pivoted, facing him. She leaned back, resting on the desk.
“Why does Roberta hate me so?” she asked innocently as if she were a victim, as if she’d suffered great hardships and didn’t deserve her daughter’s nasty attitude, as if Quinton might care, sympathize, give her what she wanted, the same thing she’d taken from him the night of Maude’s funeral.
But he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were glued to the field beyond the window. His shoulders were shaking. Had the shot killed Roberta? Why had it been so faint, muffled as if underground? Who else was out there? Mysteries shrouded in a nightscape too dark to see into was the story of the field.
“I won her back, you know. That woman is unfit. A child needs her mother no matter what, that’s the cold, hard, truth, Quinton. No matter what.”
“Hmm,” was all he could manage to say, acknowledging her and hoping she would slip into the next monologue without waiting for his input. And she did, this time about a baby, some toddler named Bennie, who Quinton had no interest in, grisly imaginings of what might be happening to Roberta at this very moment attacking his foremost thoughts.
He knew he should be with her now. Every cell in his body was screaming for her to come back, vibrating with panic they’d been separated, and quaking from intuition—tonight was the beginning of the end.
Roberta had been stripped of all hope the second Gertrude left. She’d hardened and he thought he caught her dying inside when the odd social worker’s footfall had disappeared beyond the shed. They’d listened to her car drive off in the distance and the incredible silence that followed sent Roberta into a fit of despair.
He shouldn’t have told Gertrude he’d known Doris; that they both had. He shouldn’t have implied their lives had been woven so tightly it was impossible to distinguish where Doris ended and Roberta began. But it was also impossible to please Roberta. One minute she was desperate for a new life, punching him into helping Gertrude and preventing Jake’s downfall. And the next, she was bullying him into going along with the cult, frantic it would be the only way to save her life. He couldn’t win.
He’d known about Kevin Robinson, the set up. He’d watched Gertrude through the cabin window. He’d given the word when Jake had left quickly after Gertrude. They had expected him to be in two plac
es at once, and when he had finally made it to Roberta at their usual rendezvous point, the shed, and saw her tearing it apart, furious at what they wanted her to do next, he knew he'd been too late. And though Gertrude had shown up moments later, she’d been too late as well.
He’d kept at her heels as she started for the road, Roberta turning and shoving him off, Quinton begging her not to go—I have to be there, and his plea You were right, she can help, and her abrupt reply, She can’t, don’t you get that, she’s gone now, it’s over, and his warning, They’ll kill you, and hers, If I’m not there by the time Peter takes her to the institution, then yes, they’ll kill me.
Quinton had stopped in his tracks, though she'd been walking away, and with conviction he’d stated, “I have what she needs to help us.” But Roberta didn’t turn, didn’t pause or miss a step.
That’s why he’d come here. He needed to get it. But his timing had been terrible and as soon as he crept across the front yard, nearing the planters, keeping low to the ground, while skirting along the row of newly planted bushes, Zhana had spied him through the window, stepped through the screen door, and made a performance out of crossing the porch and discovering him.
“You know, I’ve always wanted a son. But Bennie was unruly. Not at all like you.” She eased onto the bed, sitting so close that the weight of her caused Quinton to lean, which he corrected, angling away from her and feeling awkward that he wanted space, but couldn’t get it. “Why do all my children do that?”
“Hmm?”
“Kill themselves, Quinton. Where are you?”
Startled by her bluntness, he stammered nonsense.
“She’s fine,” she said, patting his leg then giving him a slight squeeze. “Roberta is how she is and you can’t stop her.”
The statement, her ignorance, had him gaping. But rather than challenge her as to why Roberta would go along with any of this—she was perpetually terrified and in a constant frenzy to stay alive—he asked, “Who else besides Maude killed themselves?”
