Blackened

by Tim McWhorter

  Dallas had picked up the length of bones and was eyeing it closer, plucking it off the counter like it was just a pen or a piece of gum. I guess his time in Vietnam had pretty much left him immune to things like severed body parts. He turned it over in his hand, bending his head toward it like a jeweler. He even brought it up to his nose at one point and smelled it. Just as I was beginning to wonder what he was thinking, he saved me the effort of asking.

  “They’re glued,” he said, holding the bones between his fingers and gently bending them at the joint. “Probably super glue or something. They wouldn’t stay together on their own, and you don’t see the glue once it dries like you would a wire. That’s probably how I’d do it, too. Nice work actually. Guy knows his stuff.”

  It wasn’t quite the reaction I had expected, but then that’s why my first thought was to come to Dallas. He was exactly the no-nonsense, level-headedness I needed. Whether I understood it or not.

  “Are you positive this is your friend’s finger?” Dallas asked.

  I took a moment to answer. It was such a strange question to ask someone.

  “Pretty sure,” I said, quietly hoping it wasn’t but willing to bet that it was. “I know for a fact that’s his ring. Even has his initials on the side.”

  I looked out the window again. This time I noticed an old black SUV sitting in the parking lot of the barred-up liquor store across the street. I couldn’t remember if I’d seen it there earlier or not. The reason it caught my attention now was because it was backed into the parking spot, not pulled directly in. Like the driver was on a stakeout. In the driver’s seat, I swore there was someone looking back at me from the shadows created by the early afternoon sun. The man wore glasses, and though I didn’t recall Barnes wearing them previously, I figured he probably could be now. Unfortunately, that was the only feature I could make out, and that was only because they glinted whenever the guy moved his head.

  Turned out, it didn’t matter anyway. A few seconds later, an older woman with a black and white dress and brown paper bag exited the store and climbed into the passenger side of the SUV. A moment after that, they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street heading westbound. As they did, it afforded me a better look at the driver and confirmed what I suppose I already knew. It wasn’t Corwin Barnes.

  “Okay, well,” Dallas started, bringing me back to the present, “assuming it is from this Barnes guy, and he is back in the picture, the obvious first question is, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, glancing back at the now empty parking lot across the street. “That’s why I came to you first, I guess. And don’t bother asking me why specifically, because I doubt I have an answer for you.”

  He looked at me quizzically, and I acted like I hadn’t noticed, turning my attention once again to the world outside the window.

  “What about your parents?” Dallas asked, running his fingers through his beard. “They need to know. Then the cops. Maybe not even in that order.”

  “I know,” I said, and it was a good question. The second straight question that I didn’t have an answer for.

  “Maybe tell your parents and let them deal with the police?” Dallas suggested.

  I nodded in agreement. It was the logical order of things. Still, I was glad that I’d told Dallas, and he was now aware. I mean, the guy was ex-military for crying out loud. That couldn’t hurt.

  The Napa delivery truck pulled up out front, and I started putting the bones and the ring back in the box. I didn’t want to have to try and explain that the dismembered finger wasn’t what it looked like.

  “I’ll tell them tonight,” I assured Dallas as I pressed the box closed.

  “Maybe you should go tell them now,” he said. “I can handle things around here for the rest of the day.”

  “No,” I said, sliding the box back into my pocket. Maybe getting some work done would clear my head. “I can finish my shift. If he wanted to kill me so bad, I’d be dead. He’s trying to scare me.”

  “And is it working?”

  I ignored the question, and giving my boss a sidelong look, slipped through the door leading into the shop.

  After the morning, the rest of the day was uneventful. The worst part of it was having to walk out to the truck after my shift was over. It was a tense couple of seconds, and that was with Dallas’ eyes on me from where he stood at the back door. The neighborhood wasn’t exactly Beverly Hills, and the alley behind the garage was nowhere near Rodeo Drive. Between the dumpsters and the skeletons of cars that we would occasionally pull parts from, there were more places someone could hide back there than a creepy old church. It was a poor man’s carnival funhouse, and the effect it had on my heart rate that evening was the same. But, I made it to my awaiting truck safely enough, and started the short drive home just as the sun was setting behind the city’s darkening buildings.

  Chapter 5

  When I first got the truck from Garrett’s parents, my father kind of wrinkled his nose about it sitting out in front of the house. It was an eyesore, he said, and it was hard to disagree. It was big and blue and rust was renting out space around the wheel wells and tailgate. With its 35” tires and 4” lift, the Chevy was too tall to even fit through the garage door. But, because it had been Garrett’s, my father didn’t make any more than the initial fuss about it before letting it go. I think my mother may have turned his ear, like she was so good at doing. Now all our neighbors were lucky enough to get a good look at Garrett’s pride and joy every night.

  I was still sitting in the truck in front of the house when I saw the box. It was on the stoop beside my mother’s three-foot tall plant stand with the sprawling fern on top. The usual brown cardboard type, it was roughly the size of box that a toaster might come in. Finding myself unable to stop it, my mind instantly compiled a list of all the body parts that would fit inside. It wasn’t a comforting endeavor, but I was just continuing what I feared might be a trend.

  My parents parked their cars in the garage and entered the house through the door that connected through the kitchen. I was the only one who used the front door. Therefore, I was the one most likely to find the package. I had an uncomfortable feeling that Barnes knew this, and the thought of him watching me every night stood my hair on end.

  Instinctively, I checked all three of the truck mirrors, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in any of them. No unfamiliar vehicles were parked on the street. No strange shadows were lurking underneath the lampposts that had just come on a few minutes ago. Still, I didn’t take for granted that Barnes wasn’t around here somewhere.

  After closing the driver’s side door and taking one last glance up and down the street, I rounded the truck and walked swiftly enough up the sidewalk to limit the amount of time I was in the open, yet not so quickly that it would draw attention. I took the two steps that led up to the front porch and scooped up the cardboard box all in one motion.

  The first thing I noticed was that, like the box left for me at the shop, this one was also naked of labels or writing of any kind. The second and third things I noticed were that every seam was sealed with clear packaging tape, and the box itself was incredibly light. Like there was nothing inside but air. Though, just before entering the house, I could make out a slight rattling sound as I, for a second time that day, held a box up to my ear and cautiously shook it. It couldn’t be much, but there was definitely something inside.

  With the heightened rhythm of my heart telling me to hurry, I fumbled with my keys before finally unlocking the door, stepping inside and then swinging it closed behind me. Once I’d made sure the door was locked and secure, I shot a quick glance through the window beside it before flipping on the light that lit up the hallway.

  The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was on the small side. A simple room in a simple house located in a rather quiet and simple neighborhood in north Dayton. The word ‘nondescript’ described all of the above to a T. In order to sit more than one per
son at the table, and still be able to move around the kitchen, the rectangular dining table had been set against the wall under the window that looked out over the narrow side yard. On that table is where I ultimately dropped the box. Before doing anything else, I was intent on searching the house for one or the other of my parents.

  However, the search was quickly deemed unnecessary. In the middle of the table was a small notebook my mother usually kept on the back edge where odds and ends like the mail or car keys gathered. Now the notebook was front and center, opened to the middle with a pen laying on top. This usually meant that my mother had left me a note. This time was no different.

  Apparently, my father had some sort of business dinner, one that actually allowed my mother to accompany him this time. I could see her excitement in the double underlining of the term “woo-hoo” in parentheses. Accordingly, they would be home late, but there was a twenty-dollar bill in the savings jar if I wanted to order a pizza.

  The words “fuck the pizza” came to mind at the thought of spending the evening alone, and I went around and closed all of the blinds covering the downstairs windows instead. I stopped short of turning on lights in every room, however. Or, the televisions. That would have been an entirely new level of paranoia. I wasn’t a child, I told myself.

  I also made sure the front and back doors were locked, as well as the side door leading into the garage. Before locking that one, though, I made the bold move of sticking my head through the door and flipping on the light. The garage was empty. Both cars were gone, which meant that my mother must have met my father at the restaurant. From the doorway, I gave a cursory glance around, checking to be sure no one was crouching behind the trash cans, or beside the cabinet where my dad stored all his bags of lawn fertilizer and bottles of windshield washer fluid. After a few moments, and without ever actually stepping out into the garage for a closer look, I determined the coast was clear. There was no Corwin Barnes lurking about, and I wasn’t sure I even expected him to be. It still made me feel better to check. I flipped the light back off, then closed and locked the door.

  Since I hadn’t eaten much for lunch, and had even lost the little I had eaten, I found myself surprisingly hungry despite the seed of fear that had germinated in my stomach. Pizza was out of the question. There was no way in hell I was going to open the front door for anyone not wearing a badge. And even then, I would have probably asked for another form of identification.

  Poking my head in the refrigerator, I started sorting through clear packages of lunchmeat and colorful plastic containers full of leftovers. All the while, the question of whether or not I should go ahead and call the police nagged at me like a lost child tugging on a stranger’s jacket sleeve. When it came down to it, I felt I should talk to my parents first, and would as soon as they got home. No more stalling. If Barnes knew where I lived, then not only I, but my entire family could be in danger. And whether I knew how to handle the situation or not, that was unacceptable.

  The image of Corwin Barnes holding his bolo knife to my mother’s throat popped into my head before I could stop it…that backward sloping blade had separated Becca’s head from her body without any resistance… and imagining it pressed against my mother’s skin piqued a charge of anger somewhere inside me. Shaking my head as if it were an Etch-a-Sketch didn’t completely clear the image from my mind, but it did knock it out of focus long enough for me to grab a container and shut the refrigerator door.

  In my rush to secure the house, I had completely forgotten about the cardboard box. Perhaps subconsciously I’d been busying myself for that very reason. But as I set a blue Tupperware container of three-day-old spaghetti on the table, the box was hard to miss. The phrase “if it had been a snake, it would have bit me” slithered into my thoughts, though I was pretty sure there wasn’t a snake inside. It was entirely too light.

  With my heart rate slowly rising, I slid the spaghetti aside and went to the utensil drawer to retrieve a knife. Six or seven gleaming blades stared up at me from the bottom of the drawer, each begging to be the one. After only a few seconds of deliberation, I chose a small paring knife with a black handle that would be sufficient to slice open the box. But while I was at it, I decided to go ahead and grab my father’s long carving knife as well, just for the heck of it. I’d seen him sharpen it more than I’d seen him actually use it, so I knew it would get the job done. Whatever that job might be. There was no turkey carving in my immediate future, but I wanted it to be handy in case a need arose.

  I started on one end and slid the paring knife into a seam along the top. The clear packaging tape barely put up a fight against the sharp knife, and allowed itself to be slit without much effort at all. Within ten seconds, I had cut through the tape that sealed both sides of the box top, as well as the seam that ran right across the middle. Just like that, I was in, and the not so subtle thumping of my heart could now be felt all the way up into my ears.

  I set the knife down and just stared at the box for at least a minute, trying to work up the nerve to look inside. Garrett’s body had been found in the tool shed beside the abandoned church. He had been tied up and his throat slit; otherwise, his body was intact. Was it possible that Barnes had taken off one of my friend’s fingers without being noticed? Anything was possible. But I found it very unlikely that much else could have been missing without it being widely reported. In today’s world, details like that don’t get past the rumor mill. I would have heard about it. I wasn’t so naïve, however, as to think that all the information gathered and inventoried that night was shared with me directly. Especially given the state I was in. Maybe the finger bones belonged to Garrett; maybe they didn’t. Maybe whatever was in this box belonged to Garrett; maybe it didn’t. There was only one way to find out, so I swallowed hard and opened the box.

  The empty box. Empty except for a folded piece of paper. No bones, no personal effects. Pulling out the piece of paper, I braced myself for whatever the note or letter had to say. I wasn’t ready for what I found there instead. Individual photos of each of my parents, Claire, and ultimately, me, had been taped to one side of the blank white piece of paper. My heart suddenly caught in my chest, and for a moment, I ceased to breathe. On the bottom of the page, in one-inch, handwritten, black letters was a message…

  IMAGINE ALL THE THINGS I COULD FIT IN THIS BOX…

  Unfortunately, I already had.

  Chapter 6

  With the empty box sitting out in the garage, and the folded threat sitting on my dresser, I stood at my bedroom window overlooking the back yard and the elementary school beyond. The school grounds, like the night itself, was still. At this late hour, the swings were hanging idle, and the blacktop basketball court was empty. There wasn’t even anyone walking their dog. To the rest of the world, it was like nothing out of the ordinary had even happened today. Though, the same couldn’t be said for me. My whole world had changed.

  All the lights in the room were off, and Bring Me The Horizon’s It Never Ends was shredding my iPod speaker. The carving knife I’d set within arm’s reach on my nightstand was vibrating. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to this kind of music. The doctors feared the artillery fire rhythms and rage-soaked screams would stimulate my brain too much, which they told me was bad for my mental stability. But that was a year ago, and the classical music they had prescribed just wasn’t going to cut it. I needed music that matched my current emotions. Fear was most prominent, but anger was also making its presence known. Besides, it was nearing 11:40 p.m., and I was growing tired. I needed something that would keep me from falling asleep until I’d had a chance to talk to my parents.

  And that sure as hell wasn’t soft strings and woodwinds.

  In the hours since I’d cut open the box, I’d left three messages on each of my parents’ cell phones, none of them returned. The fact that I hadn’t heard from either caused only slight alarm, mainly because fear was already present in my mind. It wasn’t beyond the norm not to hear from them. Neither use
d their phones like they should. They weren’t teenagers, after all.

  But he’s out there somewhere.

  All day, the thought kept coming back to me. Looking out into the night, it somehow took on a whole new meaning. It wasn’t just the punch line in a campfire ghost story; he was, literally, out there. Somewhere in the city, hiding in the shadows. Maybe behind the neighbor’s evergreen shrubs, maybe inside the large plastic tunnel on the school playground that had the clear bubble window that faces our house. I wondered if he could see me, standing here framed by my window, despite the darkened room behind me.

  I closed the blind and stepped away from the window. By the glow of the tiny blue light on my iPod speaker, I made my way over to my bed and lay down. As I stared up at a ceiling concealed in black, I started wondering what the police would do, and more importantly, how long it would take them to do it. Barnes knew where I lived, where I worked and all of the people who were close to me. He could make a move on any of them at any time. The fact that he hadn’t come after me yet somehow bothered me even more. In discussions with my therapists about Barnes and why someone would do what he was doing, I learned that people who did that sort of thing did it out of compulsion.

  ‘Hedonistic.’ That’s the term they used, primarily due to the fact that he killed and dismembered his victims for monetary gain. Repurposing the bones and selling them for a profit fit this bill, they assured me. Like I cared what they called it. I didn’t follow all of their scientific reasoning, I just thought it was pretty screwed up to be taking innocent human beings and turning them into a commodity.