The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set

by Jeremy Peterson

  I wiped down the doorknob and closed the door behind me. The staircase creaked under my weight as I carefully stepped around the dead man. Standing in the grass below, with the last of the moonlight breaking through the trees, I turned to take everything in. It was like a scene from a horror movie, the spiral staircase leading to the fairytale tree house and two dead bodies, one of them my best friend, lying underneath.

  I had to get Brandon out, and I would have to carry him. Dragging him would leave tracks and that wouldn’t do. The police force in Chaplin Hills was incompetent but even they could follow a clue like that. I hesitated for a moment as I decided how to get the case of money and my friend out of the woods in one trip and decided that would be impossible. It would take all I had to carry Brandon as it were. The money would go first; I tucked it under my arm and ran home through the woods. As I reached the last row of trees, I paused to look down the road. Everything was dark and the road was empty. In fact, everything looked perfectly normal and that soothed my racing mind. I skirted across the road and came face to face with Brandon’s motorcycle as it stood in my driveway. More evidence. I sighed.

  I raced into my house and tucked the money under my bed, ignoring the cliché. Back outside, I stopped to stare at Brandon’s giant Harley. I would figure out what to do with that later.

  Back in the woods, a calm began to settle over me like a warm blanket, and I welcomed it. I arrived at the tree house and thought the old man looked remarkably dead. This was going to work, I thought. I was going to get away with it.

  My old friend was heavy and the muscles in my lower back and legs throbbed as I hoisted him up on my shoulder. I carried him, wobbly at first, but I adjusted my center of gravity and the two of us began to make our way through the foliage. The bushes slapped and clawed at us, but I ignored them and we trudged our way back home. Suddenly, I noticed a dull pain in the finger I had dislocated earlier in the night. Brandon had still been alive then and the suddenness of how much had changed in such a short time staggered me. The calmness I had felt earlier slipped away as quickly as it had arrived, and I stopped to take in a deep breath. In that moment, it was too much to take in. I was suddenly unable to comprehend how tragic the evening had become; the chain of events that brought the three of us together, and my role in all of this, seemed like an unsolvable riddle. The sun would be up soon, and I had no time to ponder things I could not change. I had to get home, and I had to do so now.

  Again, the road was clear, and I scampered across. The garage was beckoning me. I scrambled towards it. Inside, next to my toolbox, I laid my dead friend onto the dusty cement. Without looking at him, I opened the overhead door and pushed his motorcycle inside next to him. It was a tight fit, and as I tried to squeeze between the two, I accidently knocked my shovel off its hook. It was a sign; I thought and decided to act before doubt could set in. I grabbed the shovel and shut the door tight behind me. Thankfully, the dirt in my garden was soft, and I ignored the ache of my muscles as I began digging. It took a little over an hour and I could almost feel the sun beginning to rise. I dropped the shovel and ran back to the garage. Off an old, seldom used shelf, I pulled down a tarpaulin. It was still in the package and realized I couldn’t remember why I had purchased it. I shook my head in frustration, and cursed my wandering mind. With a screwdriver that sat on my workbench, I stabbed at the package and tore it open. It unfolded with a crackling noise that seemed too loud in the cramped garage, and I was relieved when I had finished wrapping Brandon in the blue plastic.

  Once more, I poked my head out of the garage door to ensure I was alone before dragging my dead friend towards the garden. I tried to pick him up and carry him as I had out of the forest but my body simply wouldn’t comply. Instead, I pulled the tarp through the dew soaked grass until we reached the fresh grave in my garden. You might think at this time, standing over a shallow grave with my only true friend wrapped up like a bag of trash, that I might have felt something, some type of aversion to the horrible act I was committing. Maybe some type of moral compunction that the things I had done, and currently were doing, were evil, but it didn’t happen that way. I did feel sorrow for my friend, but mostly I felt fear—fear of being exposed and fear of losing my money. The thought of losing the money after all I had done seemed unconscionable.

  Somewhere to the south, an engine roared to life. The driver pumped the gas causing the engine to rumble and bark, shattering the early morning quiet. After another minute, the sound of the engine grew quieter until finally, it disappeared altogether. I slid Brandon’s wrapped corpse into the hole and it nearly disappeared into the darkness. After a few scoops of dirt, he did disappear.

  Despite my mental and physical exhaustion, I climbed into the shower and tried to wash the blood, dirt and murder from my body. The filth ran down my skin and swirled around the drain at my feet. I stared at the whirlpool of dirt circling the drain until I grew dizzy. Eventually, I climbed out of the shower (still feeling dirty) and collapsed onto my bed. With the money lying safely below me, I ran over the facts in my head. The tree house was clean, finger prints wiped from top to bottom, and I had successfully made the old man’s death look like an accident. But what about Brandon, I wondered. Would his wife, or was it ex-wife, miss him? What about his son, William, I thought. Christ, another little boy growing up without a dad. Just like me. I hated that, but on the other hand, I turned out okay, didn’t I?

  Brandon had been between jobs and was merely drifting from one place to the next. Did he tell his estranged wife where he was going? I didn’t think so. Besides his bike in my garage, he had never been here. It seemed simple. Perhaps too simple.

  Outside my window, the sun began to rise. I closed my eyes and fell asleep almost instantly. I dreamt of a monster in the woods.

  5

  My alarm clock read 1:45 pm when I finally climbed out of bed. With a grunt of effort, I kneeled down and looked under the bed for the case, certain it was only a dream, and I would find nothing but dust bunnies. The case was there, I reached for it and then decided to leave it be. I needed to think clearly and the money would make that impossible.

  My body was sore all over, muscles ached and the swelling of my dislocated finger made gripping anything with my left hand all but impossible. Despite the pain and the knowledge of what I had done, I couldn’t stop smiling. My life was about to change. I would have to continue at my job and living in this house until after they found the old man’s body, but after that, and after Brandon’s body had time to decompose, I would dig him up and dispose of the bones. Then I could leave this house. This town. I could take my money and go wherever I wanted to go. Maybe I could go back to Colorado, find a place in the mountains.

  I opened the door to my room and walked down the hallway. The air conditioning was on and it felt great. Did I turn it on last night? The night had been cool and I didn’t remember doing it. In the kitchen, the sliding doors that hid my washer and dryer hung open and my jeans from last night lay crumpled on the floor. I could see the blood stains from Brandon’s mouth and nose. I hadn’t left them there. I was sure of that.

  The back door was open. I looked through the screen to the garden and almost screamed. Sara kneeled over Brandon’s grave, wearing the pink gardening gloves I bought her. She wasn’t moving. What was she doing?

  My heart began hammering in my chest, and I wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. I moved closer to the doorway, my mind racing. Goddamn it, Sara! What are you doing here? Why today, Sara? Why did you have to surprise me today?

  To my right, dirty in the kitchen sink, sat my meat tenderizer. I grabbed the wood handle and noticed it felt remarkably heavy today. I gripped it tight as I could, my sore little finger screaming its own protest. Goddamn you, Sara.

  With both hands behind my back, I waited at the doorway. Sara remained on her knees in my garden, two feet above my dead friend. She had been digging; I could see her little gardening shovel lying next to her in the dirt. I should have
dug deeper, I thought to myself. Much deeper.

  I remained frozen in the doorway, watching her. Was I going to bash her head in with a kitchen tool? Was I even capable of that? I thought about that question for only a second. Of course I could, and I would, but only if I had to. Finally, she stood up. I stepped back and hid behind the door, watching her intently through the slit in the doorframe. Sara glanced to her left, back to her right and then she reached into the sky and stretched her back. I had seen her do this a thousand times, and I could almost hear the popping sound it makes when she does that in the morning, just out of bed. I suddenly realized I was holding my breath. She turned and began walking back to the house, and I forced myself to breath. As she reached the house, I thought she saw me, but she simply swung open the screen door and walked passed me into my kitchen. She glanced at the table and stopped. I followed her gaze and cursed myself for being so stupid. She stared at Brandon’s jacket that hung over one of the kitchen chairs. I almost burst from my hiding spot just then to end this nightmare morning, but I still wasn’t sure what she knew. I remained still, and eventually, Sara walked down the hallway towards my room. The bedroom door opened with its familiar squeak and after a slight hesitation, she called my name. “Pete, where are you?”

  She doesn’t know, I thought with relief. She wouldn’t be hollering for me if she knew, right? Probably. Maybe …

  Sara came back to the kitchen and I held my breath again. She was looking at something on her phone and that made me nervous. She stopped at the washing machine and bent over to grab my dirty clothes from last night. After placing her phone in her front pants pocket, she held up my jeans with both hands and stared at the bloodstains.

  “What the hell?” she muttered under her breath. Finally, she let them fall back to the kitchen floor and then wiped her hands on her old Chadron State College t-shirt.

  A thought occurred to me that chilled my blood. Did she get those gardening gloves and that shovel from the garage? Brandon’s bike is in there. Hell, maybe she even dug deep enough to find his body. Everything was about to come to an end, and I just couldn’t allow that to happen. With her back to me, I stepped out from behind the door and held the heavy meat tenderizer over my head. I was just a few feet away from her, and I could already hear the noise the meat tenderizer would make as it caved in the back of my girlfriend’s skull.

  “Honey, I love your new jacket!” Sara yelled. My arm froze in mid swing. The tenderizer remained suspended in the air as if someone had hit the pause button on this horror movie. “Where ever you are …” she added in a whisper.

  She didn’t know what I had done … at least not yet. It was too late to return to my hiding place so I did the first thing that came to mind.

  “Boo!” I said, hiding the tenderizer behind my back.

  She turned and screamed. “Holy crap, you scared me!” she said with a nervous smile. Somehow, I smiled too.

  I leaned in and gave her a big hug, laying my impromptu kitchen weapon on the table as I did so. She returned the hug half-heartedly.

  “Sorry,” I said with a sheepish smile.

  She nodded slowly “You must have had one hell of a night.”

  I swallowed hard. Too hard. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well first of all, there is an empty bottle of whiskey on the porch, and you were still in bed at one in the afternoon.

  “Oh yeah … it was pretty crazy,” I said.

  “There are two empty glasses.” She floated that statement out there and waited for me to offer an explanation. A tornado of ideas floated through my mind but as I grasped for one, they danced just out of reach, taunting me. And then remarkably, Sara herself supplied me the perfect alibi.

  “Are you seeing someone else?” she asked. Her face was solemn and I thought I could see tears waiting to burst free.

  “Yes,” I lied, “I’m sorry.”

  Part Three

  2015

  1

  All of this took place three years ago, in the summer of 2012. I still live in the same house in Chaplin Hills and Brandon Dane Grant is still dead. The movie theatre closed down eleven months after they found Mr. Taggard’s body. It was ruled an accidental death, just an eccentric old man falling down the stairs of his weirdly elaborate tree house in the middle of the woods.

  It was a few weeks after everything happened that I discovered what you, imaginary reader, might have already figured out. Bear with me a few more moments and allow me to explain. In a last ditch effort to save our relationship, I took Sara to the movies, a chick-flick that I have since forgotten. I had remained disciplined and avoided the money, but my hours were short that summer, and I figured spending just one of those bills couldn’t hurt. I asked the clerk, some pimple faced teen with a bad haircut, for two tickets and handed over the hundred-dollar bill. He sighed and reached into the register for the marker they used to check for counterfeits. I had never even entertained the idea the bills were fake until just then. Looking back now, that seems absurd.

  The clerk marked the bill and held it up, a black stain appeared and the boy frowned. He looked at me confused, and I could tell he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

  “Is something wrong?” Sara asked the kid.

  I interrupted them both. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I meant to save that.” I reached out and grabbed the bill from the boy’s hand. “I’m just gonna use my card.” I held out my Visa, the boy looked at my card, and then at me with something I hoped was only confusion. He didn’t look very smart, and I was thankful for that.

  He ran the card without asking to see my driver’s license and asked if I wanted a receipt. I said ‘no’ and he handed over our tickets. He told us to enjoy the show and then dismissed me, already focusing on the couple behind us. Sara practically dragged me to the concession stand where, in a daze, I purchased a large popcorn and two diet sodas. I glanced several times back at the kid at the front counter but he never looked my way.

  As we maneuvered down the hall towards the screen, I glanced at each movie poster on the way. In between each poster depicting upcoming movies, sat elaborate wood curio cabinets encased in glass. Inside each case were classic movie posters with famous memorabilia from that particular film. The first one featured the movie, Risky Business. Tom Cruise stared back at me over the top of those famous sunglasses that sat low on his nose. Underneath the poster, hung a scaled down mantle-place with the cracked crystal egg and two unlit candles on either side of it. The famous sunglasses sat on the mantle next to the egg.

  The next one up was The Silence of the Lambs. Underneath the poster of Agent Starling with a death’s head moth where her mouth should have been, sat Hannibal Lecter’s mask. The one that was supposed to prevent him from biting. Next to that, stood a mason jar. Inside the jar hung a moth with its wings extended.

  Finally, just before we reached the screen that would be showing our movie, we came to the last case. It featured The Big Lebowski. Underneath the iconic poster sat a pink bowling ball and a suitcase full of money. It looked nothing like my case full of money, but at the same time, they may as well have been one in the same. Suddenly, it became clear and it was so painfully obvious that my first feeling wasn’t shock or anger, but embarrassment for not seeing it sooner. The money was fake. The money under my bed, and the hundred-dollar bill in my wallet was counterfeit. My nest egg and all that I had, nothing more than a cheap prop from some stupid heist movie.

  “Fuck me,” I mumbled.

  Sara looked at me with raised eyebrows. She shook her head and then pointed to the display. “That movie was stupid. I didn’t get it,” she said. I ignored her, my gaze fixed on the case of money. Sara continued talking but her whiny voice mixed with everyone else’s in the theatre and it swirled around me. None of it made any sense; its only purpose seemed to be to cause me confusion and to turn my stomach in circles.

  “Are you okay, dear?” Sara asked, gently tugging at my arm. She was concerned for my wellbeing, but not enough to warra
nt missing the coming attractions. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even think. She pulled me into the dark theatre and sat me down. The movie played out on the big screen above me while I sat numb in my seat, the blood pumping through my veins loud enough to drown out the movie. At one point, I began to laugh, it was that or cry and I didn’t know which I was going to do until it started. Sara looked at me and frowned, so I guess mad gales of laughter didn’t fit the particular scene in the movie. I didn’t care. At that moment, I didn’t care about anything.

  Sara was pissed at me, and instead of staying the night as she had planned, she drove home directly after the movie. I was glad she left. I couldn’t stand the sound of her voice on that night.

  I spent the next two weeks trying desperately to concoct a plan to get something of value from the money, but they all seemed too farfetched and there was just too much at stake. In the end, a few weeks after Sara dumped me, I burned the money. I did it in the fire pit in my backyard, ten feet from my abandoned garden where Brandon still rests.

  I’m glad Sara left me. In the weeks that followed my burning of the money, I felt a desperate need to tell someone what I had done. Without the money, it all seemed so pointless, and I thought if I could just explain my thoughts about what I did and why, they would understand my pain. And maybe it would make a little more sense.

  Sometimes I think that if Sara had stuck around, I would have told her everything. For her sake, thank God she left. I know what I’m capable of now, and I’m afraid if I had told her, eventually I would have had to dig another hole in the garden. So as it turns out, this journal is my confession … and who knows, maybe I’ll bury this in the garden someday.