by John Hunt
Into the phone he said, “I can’t do that Owen. No, sir.”
“Goddamnit! You will do that! Get on back to the house or I’ll arrest your ass for obstruct!”
“You do what you have to do and I’ll do the same. Now, I’m going to hang up. Don’t go calling me or the ring of it will ruin my sneaking up on the bastard. Just get your ass over here.”
Joel hung up and slipped the phone into his back pocket. The phone didn’t need to be a certain distance from the base. Margaret bought the good phone so she could nag him from afar when he used to work the farm. If all went well, he could call the police from the barn. He checked the chamber of the rifle. A bullet gleamed at him. Shaking his head, wishing he brought the shotgun, he crept to the barn.
-31-
The bucket and a rat…
Everything hurt. Her face hurt, her shoulder hurt, her ribs hurt, her scalp hurt, it even hurt to breathe. Taylor pulling her into the barn by her hair took all the fight out of her. She didn’t want to die. She just didn’t know how to stay alive. Taylor wasn’t Taylor. His crazy smile wouldn’t leave his face. Permanent as a tattoo and as ugly as a violent scar. She couldn’t reason with him. Nothing she could do or say would avoid what he wanted to do to her. Might as well argue with a thunderstorm. He pulled her back inside, a plume of dirt and dust choking off her scream, turning it into a wracking cough. He dropped her by the post again and moved about the barn, eyes scanning, head swivelling and finding what he had been looking for, he picked it up and brought it over to Rosie.
He said, “Get up.”
She struggled to put an arm under her and impatient, Taylor hauled her up. She cried out in pain and he pushed her down. Her butt hit the top of a stool and she almost slid off it in surprise. He picked up the yellow rope and moved behind her. Her arms were pulled back on either side of the post and her shoulder flared with bright pain. She uttered a tittering wail as the rope wound around each wrist. He then circled Rosie, trailing the rope with him and pulling it across the top of her breasts and around the post, working it down her body as he went. He left a gap around her stomach. He finished by looping the rope around each ankle individually and tying the rope off on the back of the post. He stood above her, surveying his work, tugging at lines of rope here and there. She had never been so helpless in her life.
“What are you going to do?”
He showed her his back and moving into the shadows of the barn, went to all fours, lithe as a great cat. He sniffed the air and followed a trail only he could sense. From Rosie’s position, she could only see slants of light trail along Taylor’s back as he moved, no, stalked was a better word for the way he was moving. He was looking for something. He tensed, immobile and then he sprung across the floor. Nothing else would adequately described the way he bounded across a large space with one movement. From the corner, a squeal issued and a shadow stood.
Taylor walked across the floor towards her. He held something in his fist. When he got close enough, a long rat’s tail swished against the back of his hand. He had caught a rat. Better than any barn cat could, Rosie suspected.
She pressed herself against the post, moving away from him. Her breath came in short gasps. She didn’t know what he planned to do. But it wouldn’t be anything good. He wouldn’t be letting her go, pointing at her and saying, “Gotcha!” And Roger would jump up behind him, no longer dead because it had all been a joke. She whimpered, “Taylor, please Taylor, what are you doing? What are you doing?
Taylor said, “Taylor wants you to hurt.” With his free hand, he pointed to his stomach, not his heart, his stomach and said, “Taylor wants you to hurt on the inside. Like you hurt him.”
He put the rat in the bucket and quickly turned it upside down on the dirt, trapping the rat underneath. He kept a foot on it. Rosie heard the rat scratching and chirping. Taylor lifted the plastic bag that had held all the items and reached inside. He pulled out the box-cutter. He slid out the blade. The impossible smile never left his face.
-32-
Bad time to be a hero…
Joel didn’t witness Taylor prowling the room like a monstrous cat and see him catch a rat and toss it in a bucket. When he snuck a peek around the corner of the barn, he saw Taylor extending the blade on a box-cutter and the back of a woman tied to a post. Joel never considered himself a coward. He had fought a few fights in his time and, more often than not, he came out on top. Even when the pansy, Hugh, came at him with a pool cue, Joel hadn’t been scared. No, he stepped inside the pool cue and slapped Hugh with a backhand heard throughout the entire bar. He knocked Hugh on his ass, that’s what he did, and no one in the bar that day let poor Hugh live it down. Hugh ended up moving to a stool at a different bar, in a different town, where the smack-down hadn’t followed him. Joel hadn’t hesitated then. Fear hadn’t even entered his brain. He saw a problem and he resolved it, simple as that. But now, the .22 seemed inadequate. The rifle didn’t appear it would be more effective than a straw and some spitballs. Large did not define the man standing there in a white paper suit with dark splotches on it. Those stains could be blood or they could be dirt. Joel was more inclined to believe they were blood.
The man’s teeth gleamed within his face. Joel couldn’t say if the expression was a grimace or a grin. Either way, it appeared unnatural. It screamed insanity. Joel gripped the rifle tighter and thought, I’m going to use this against that thing? And that is how he thought of Taylor, as a thing instead of a man. While he stood there considering whether his bravery actually existed, Taylor went to one knee in front of the woman and jabbed forward with the box cutter. She screamed, gasped and moaned, a hybrid sound that didn’t quite sound human. It hurt his ears. His guts gurgled and before he knew it, he moved forward, rifle held at his shoulder pointing it in the centre of the massive, white suit, knowing it was her cry that got him moving.
“Hey you! Put down that blade!”
The man paused and stood. He didn’t drop the blade. He cocked his head to the side, studying Joel. When his gaze settled on him, Joel took a step back. He didn’t mean to do it, he couldn’t help it. There was nothing human in the man’s stare. Cold and alien and it chilled Joel in the pit of his stomach. The rifle jumped and jerked in his grip.
“You listening, boy? Put down that blade!” He tried to sound tough and sure of himself only his voice wavered at the end and the facade of confidence went with it.
The man stood maybe fifteen feet away from Joel. He had moved to the side of the post, half in shadow and half in morning light. The light shone on the man’s face, down his chest and slanted off his body at the waist. Any cop could have told Joel that if a man gets within twenty feet of you with a blade, you’re going to get cut. Joel was only thinking he had a gun on the man and although he thought it wouldn’t do much, it would hopefully be enough to scare the man off the woman. Joel wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least try and most people, even crazy people, knew when a gun was pointed at them. And that in itself would usually be enough to stop any argument. He thought he could maybe stall him long enough for the police to get here. They had better firepower than the shitty .22 he was holding in his hands on their waist. It surprised Joel, knowing all this and believing no one would fuck with a guy pointing a gun at you, when the man leapt across the space between them in two quick strides.
Joel had no idea the man even thought of moving. No tensing of muscles, no telegraphing his intention with a look, he just moved. Joel managed to get two shots off. One went under a spot he imagined the nipple would be and the next one, through the meat of the muscle between the neck and the shoulder. The blade went into his neck as the giant closed his fist over Joel’s crown, twisting his head the way you would open a stubborn jar of pickles. Joel heard his own neck crack. He dropped to the ground, his blood t
urning black in the dirt.
-33-
Rosie gets a history lesson…
After Taylor killed the man, he returned to find the rat had escaped the bucket. A growl escaped him and he did his prowling thing and within moments either caught the same one or, for all Rosie knew, a different one. It didn’t matter. He dropped it in the bucket and put his big paw over the top of the bucket to prevent it escaping again. It hissed and clawed against the sides of the bucket. He kneeled down in front of Rosie and sat on his heels. Even seated, he towered over her. Rosie fluctuated between complete terror to subjugated despondency to pleading.
She said, “Taylor. It’s me. It’s Rosie. You don’t want to do this, please don’t do this. Ahhh!” The rat’s snout poked out from between Taylor’s fingers and it scared her. He once again turned the bucket over with the rat inside. He picked up the box cutter and stared at the blade. He returned his attention back to Rosie.
Taylor said, “Shhhh, Rosie. Nothing is going to change what I am going to do. I did get the idea from Taylor. He read a lot, Taylor did. He had read in some book, he doesn’t remember so I don’t remember but in this book, the author described a form of torture from the middle ages. It sickened Taylor and so it stayed with him. He dreamed about it sometimes.” The stretched lips from the constant smile returned after the speech. Taylor glanced over her shoulder and she thought he might have seen the dead body of the man he just killed because he shuddered and behind the cold eyes, Rosie caught sight of the Taylor she knew.
“Taylor! Don’t do this! Please! Just let me go, oh please, why can’t you let me go?”
Taylor’s eyes drifted to hers and she choked back a scream. They were black, both eyeballs were impossibly, entirely black. Little lights swirled in the orbs. She strained at the ropes and shifted her feet wanting to buck herself off the stool and out of this dark barn to escape a certain and painful death. The Taylor she knew was gone and in his place was this thing with a bucket and a rat.
Taylor blinked and his eyes returned to their natural shade and the teeth baring, cheek stretching grin returned. He spoke as though he had never been interrupted by her pleas, “There would be a bucket, a rat and a knife. The prisoner would be tied up and cut along the belly. The rat in the bucket would be placed over the wound. A torch or something hot would be held against the bottom of the bucket. It would heat up and the rat would try to escape the heat. The only place it could go was in the wound. It would claw, dig and bite and then the bucket would be removed once they judged the rat to be inside. And afraid of suffocating, the rat would try to dig and eat its way out. Very gruesome don’t you think? I can see why it would give Taylor nightmares.”
Without warning he stabbed Rosie in the stomach. She yelped and squirmed under the pain as he drew the blade across her stomach, intersecting with the previous stab. Hot blood spilled out of her wound and she sucked in big gasps of air. Rosie groaned when the knife slid out of her. Sharp, hot pain flared along her midsection. Before she could scream Taylor placed the rat and the bucket over her wound and pressed it tight.
Rosie found her voice, “What? No! Hey! Why are you doing this? We were friends! The best of friends! Taylor! Please!”
Taylor held the bucket tight against her with one hand. It dug into her. She whimpered when the rat’s tail brushed against her. Taylor said, “You knew. And you didn’t try to stop it. And Taylor got beaten, humiliated and pissed on at a party, in front of all his classmates and a girl he had a crush on. You’re no best friend. A best friend wouldn’t do that.”
He reached behind him and picked up the propane torch. He turned it on and held it against the bottom of the bucket.
Rosie tried moving from side to side and sucking her stomach in to either get loose or allow the rat an escape other than her stomach. Her chest heaved, her breath whistled out between clenched teeth. The rat pressed into her stomach. She screamed and jerked more but the ropes held her tight. Taylor, watching her with a humourless smile held the propane torch against the pail.
She felt the claws first, scratching at her stomach. Blood flowed from her stab wounds and she imagined she could feel the twitching nose of the rat sniffing her blood.
“No, no! Stop, stop this!”
The rat pressed against her. Her wound widened as it clawed inside, biting, crawling to get away from the heat of the bucket. She thought it may be inside her up to its shoulders, maybe halfway? All she did know was that if she didn’t get it out of her soon she would go crazy. Lose her mind, sucking on her thumb and staring into a corner type of crazy. She couldn’t stand this! Taylor’s face, her stomach being entered by a living animal, and yup, it had to be halfway in now and if it did get all the way in, crazy she would be. It was a certainty. She screamed, “GET IT OUT! IT HURTS, OH GOD, GET IT OUT OF ME-“
“Get away from her, Taylor!”
-34-
What the fuck…
“The old bastard hung up on me.”
Earl said, “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, call him back.”
Owen’s thumb hovered over the redial button. He remembered what the old man said. He didn’t want the ringing of the phone to ruin his sneaking. It made sense to Owen and he didn’t want anyone else to die because of him. He put the phone in an inside pocket and said, “No. Taylor might hear it.”
“Call the cavalry then. The car is there but it doesn’t mean Rosie and Taylor are there.”
“They’re there.”
“How do you know?”
“The old man said so.”
Owen called into the station and asked everyone available to redirect to the barn. He asked for the tactical unit and for the dispatcher to contact the nearest policing agency to see if any of their people were closer. Owen figured they were five to ten minutes out. Trivial amount of time really. Sometimes he waited that long for a coffee in the Tim Horton’s line. But it was a long time when someone’s life was at risk. Hell, it only took seconds to end one, as Taylor had repeatedly shown over the past, what? Three days now? It all tended to blur into one long nightmare.
The dispatcher raised them over the air to tell them the closest officer was maybe twenty minutes away. They were hurrying, but Owen and Earl would get there first.
“We’re on our own?”
Owen sighed a shaky exhalation and said, “Looks like it.”
The rest of the ride they finished in silence.
***
Earl eased his foot off the accelerator as they both eyed the barn from afar. White, puffy clouds raced across the roof’s peak, accentuating the bright blue of the sky. An otherwise beautiful day. A day to have a few beers in the backyard with good friends, kids yelling and jumping into a pool and interesting conversation as a pleasant soundtrack. Instead, they were chasing a murderer and hoping not to add to his list of victims.
Owen said, “Don’t get too close.”
“I know, I know. I’m going to pull over here. We can approach from the ditch. Even if he happened to be looking out, he wouldn’t see us until we were almost on top of him.”
“Yeah. I see it.”
The car rolled to a stop on the gravel shoulder. So loud to Owen, he ground his teeth until the noises stopped.
Earl said, “Let’s go. No talking. All hand signals. You remember those? From our training day?”
“Almost a year ago? Funnily, I do.”
They both stepped out of the car and at the same time, patted their vests and touched their guns at their waist. A subconscious movement, learned when they were both rookies and pushing a cruiser. Earl walked around the front of the car to join Owen and they slid into the slight incline of the ditch. Damp at t
he bottom, the muck sucked at their shoes.
Owen took off at a trot with Earl behind. The barn’s peak was visible on their left. It grew bigger as they travelled the ditch and Owen’s breathing quickened. Earl struggled behind him. Owen wanted to say they both needed to get into shape but remembered they were to communicate with hand signals.
Closer now, Owen slowed to a walk. He climbed the side of the ditch and peered over the lip. The car sat in the shade, the door open, a chiming sound issuing from inside. Maybe ten feet from the open door on the hard packed dirt was a hand. The barn wall hid the rest of the body from view. Owen concentrated on the hand. It didn’t move. It didn’t twitch. Owen inhaled through his nose and out his mouth. It didn’t help with the dirty, swirling motion in his stomach. Too much. He’d seen too much and now he felt steeped in filth. He’d have to talk to someone after this. He knew it. Seeing that hand pushed him over the point where he didn’t know if he could do this job anymore after this. One death too many. Sweat ran down his face. It wasn’t from the short run either.
He pointed to his own eyes with two fingers and then motioned to the hand. Earl saw it, nodded and they both removed their guns from the holsters. Owen moved up the hill and crouching low and placing his feet heel toe, he pressed his back against the wood of the barn. When Earl stopped behind him, he continued forward until he made it to the corner. He went to his knees and, staying low, peeked around the corner.
On the ground lay an older man. Eyes facing the blue sky. Blood pooled black under his head. In the barn, Taylor kneeled in front of Rosie. Owen couldn’t see that it was Rosie, but it couldn’t be anyone else, right? Tied to a post, he was able to glimpse her shoulders and arms tied behind her with yellow rope. Her knees moved from side to side. She struggled and Owen heard her say, “No, no. Stop, stop this!”
