by Gregg Olsen
She slithered over the floor on her hands and knees, not because she was afraid she couldn’t walk those ten feet. She was afraid that the monster Brenda would hear her. Kill her. Torture her. She rose up from her knees and twisted the knob and pushed. She was firm, but gentle. She didn’t want to make any noise.
Nothing. She couldn’t move the door.
Violet wanted to scream for help, but it was nighttime. There was no one to hear her screams. She deliberated on what Brenda meant by “livestock” when she said her son was busy. She wondered what she had done so wrong in her life to deserve this kind of evil visited upon her. She’d gone to church. She baked pies for the PTA. She’d never cheated on her husband. She made sure her children were raised with good, strong moral values. She wished that what had just happened was a nightmare. She closed her eyes and reopened them.
The walker was missing. The cane was gone. It was real. She was a prisoner in her own home, and she had no idea why.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Brenda Nevins kept a straight razor she’d found in the upstairs bathroom under her pillow. It had belonged to Alec Wilder. There was some irony to what she was about to do and she loved irony. She pitied those who didn’t get the nuances of such things. Dull normals. Lowbrow. The fill-in people. She’d set up the laptop in the bedroom. The image displayed there was no longer the four stalls that Sherman had outfitted with wild-game cameras. The girls and their terror bored her. Repeating the same thing over and over.
Help me. Help me.
Get me out of here.
Don’t rape me.
So boring. The girls were taking up air and space. They had to go.
When Sherman came out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his paunchy waist, he saw the woman of his dreams. She was sprawled out on the bed, naked, inviting him over with a smile.
“Damn,” he said. “Are you for real?”
“I’m your fantasy,” she said.
He sat next to her and she moved closer. She wrapped a leg around his, pressing herself against him.
“I want to ride you like that stupid horse of your mother’s,” she said.
It was a dream. The most beautiful woman in the world wanted him in the way that felt beyond any other sexual encounter he’d ever experienced. Brenda made him feel stronger, bigger.
“My God, baby, you’re going to split me in two,” she said, writhing on top of him. She leaned downward, pressing her nipples, the crowning glory of that body of hers, against his pasty, white chest.
The sound of the old Chippendale headboard against the plaster and lathe walls reverberated through the room. It was loud, like a woodpecker that never needed rest. She’d bring him to the edge, then ease off. She’d nuzzle his chest, let her fingertips explore every inch of his body. Her hair flew behind her as she leaned back to work him deep inside of her.
“Oh baby,” Sherman cried out. His arms were splayed over his head as he let Brenda Nevins do to him whatever she wanted. She was in total control and yet at the same time he’d never felt more virile in his life. More commanding. She’d awakened something dormant inside of him. After his marriage collapsed, sex was porn on the Internet. He might as well have been gelded like Monty, his mother’s beloved horse. Brenda had given him everything that a woman can give to a man.
Purpose.
Desire.
Opportunity.
“I can feel you,” she said, her warm breath pouring down on him. “I want you! Give it to me!”
Sherman Wilder was the man, but the student too. Brenda knew how to please him in ways that no woman ever had. He wanted more than anything to satisfy her. It didn’t matter what she wanted done. He’d never let her down.
“Giving it,” he said, first quietly, before bursting out, “giving it!”
Brenda arched her back before lowering herself one more time. “That’s it! Good baby! Fill me up,” she said.
He closed his eyes like he always did.
“Jesus, Brenda! So good! Too good!”
Brenda slid her hand under the pillowcase to retrieve the razor. She held it upward, above her, and then turned to the camera and smiled.
“I love you, Brenda,” he said, his eyes still closed, his body still feeling the rush of the orgasm that she’d given to him.
“I know you do, baby,” she said. “You prove it to me every time we make love. You were so into it just now. So loud. I loved it.”
His eyes popped open.
“I got carried away,” he said, lifting his head from the pillow. “Crap, my mother! She must have got an earful.”
Brenda let out a little laugh. “The old dried-up bitch. She’s always complaining about something, treating us like we’re dirt. And really, I can’t stand the way she treats you. Sickening. If she hears us making love, I say good for her. Maybe she’ll realize the world isn’t all about her sad little farm. People have to live a little, baby. You of all people know that.”
Sherman rolled onto his side, sweaty and exhausted.
“I guess so,” he said. “Still, I really think I need to do something about that damn headboard.”
“No. I like the noise,” Brenda said. “It’s the sound of our love.” She got up and went over to the computer.
“Hey,” he said, “were you recording that?”
She shut the lid of the laptop that had belonged to Janie and turned to face her lover.
“Yes,” she said, “just a practice run. I don’t think I got the best angle.”
“I want to watch, baby,” Sherman said, excited again. “That was the best sex I ever had.”
“We can do better,” she said. “Now get some clothes on. I’m starving.”
Sherman sighed. “You’re always hungry,” he said.
“Mind-blowing sex with a hot guy does that to me.”
He kissed her and put on some pants and a T-shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror over the dresser. He wasn’t in perfect shape. He didn’t have the crisp features of a younger man, but somehow Brenda didn’t see what he saw. It was shallow for him to care so much about how he looked, but he knew that the balance of power when it came to beautiful women tipped in favor of a rich guy. He wasn’t rich at all. Except to her. Over everyone in the world, Brenda picked him.
“You coming?” he asked.
Brenda got up to get dressed.
“I just did,” she said.
He laughed. “Yeah, you did.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Tansy Mulligan adored talk radio, but the reception off the highway toward the Wilder farm was so meager she had nothing to listen to. That was fine. She had a lot to think about, and hearing someone complain about the latest political faux pas didn’t amount to a hill of beans. At least that’s what she thought. Her daughter had planned to come over for the Memorial Day holiday, but Shelly was feeling ill and canceled. Fiddlesticks! She had a refrigerator full of food—a brisket that she had rubbed with herbs like a masseuse in search of a really big tip. She wondered if she’d be able to freeze the meat when she got home. Wasting food was such, well, a waste.
As the library van rumbled up the driveway to the charming blue and white two-story farmhouse, Tansy noticed a young woman standing over by the barn. She adjusted her glasses and waved. The woman waved back.
Tansy eased down on the brake, and the van crawled to a safe stop in front of the dahlia bed that Ms. Wilder—“Violet, please!”—had said quite proudly contained several rare tubers. She made a mental note to remind Violet of her promise to give her some. Her garden at home in Port Angeles was supposed to be an English garden, though Tansy was pretty sure at present it resembled England during the Blitz.
“You must be Violet’s daughter, Denise,” she said, stepping out of the van and going over to greet her.
Brenda smiled. “One and the same.”
“She’s told me all about you,” Tansy said. Her tone was effusive. “So proud of you being a dentist and all. She loves saying ‘my daughter, the doctor.‘”
> Brenda laughed. “She’s a real cheerleader, my mom.”
“I must say, you look so familiar. Do you advertise your practice on TV?”
“I have some,” Brenda said, eyeing Tansy and wondering what it is that she was recognizing.
“I knew it. The second I saw you I thought, wow, she’s pretty enough to be a model. Just seemed like you’ve been on TV or maybe the movies. But your mom told me you were a dentist, so now I’ve figured it all out.”
“You have, have you?” Brenda asked.
“TV and dental star! So awesome. You here for the holiday weekend?” Tansy asked.
Brenda indicated she was.
“That’s wonderful,” Tansy said. “Your mom has been lonely lately. It’s hard when your kids get all grown up and have lives of their own.”
She was thinking about herself and that brisket as much as anything. Tansy looked over at the house. “Where is she, by the way?”
Brenda shifted into her concerned affect. It was a look that she’d observed from the prison chaplain, a do-gooder who knew how to tilt her head and give it a subtle, sad shake.
“Mom’s been under the weather,” she said, the tilt in place. “She wanted me to return her books. Just a sec. I set them on the porch. She told me you’d be by today.”
Tansy followed her across the yard to the front door.
“Did she like the Lilian Jackson Braun novel?” Tansy asked.
“Loved it,” Brenda said.
Tansy beamed. “Marvelous. I’ve got another for her in the van.”
Brenda turned to face her, tilt again. Sad eyes. Worried look. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mom’s eyes are failing. She can’t read anymore.”
Tansy put her hands to her face.
Brenda made a note of that.
“Oh, no,” Tansy said. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry to hear that. Reading is so important. Opens doors. Gives perspective.” She stopped her brochure summation. “Hey,” she said, brightening. “I have audiobooks too. Does your mom have a CD player?”
Brenda pushed the books into Tansy’s arms.
“No,” she said. “She’s not one for electronics. Not like my brother.”
Tansy adjusted the books in her arms. “How is your brother?” Tansy asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, your mom has been very worried about him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Tansy said, looking toward the dahlia bed. “Like I said, it’s none of my business. None of my beeswax as my daughter Shelly used to say, but anyway, your mom is worried about Sherman. Says he’s so lonely and sad and, you know.”
“No,” Brenda said, “I don’t know.”
“Not successful like you.”
Brenda liked where that was going. Even though Tansy Mulligan thought she was Denise, the van driver in the blue-and-white “Authors Are My Rock Stars” T-shirt was right on the money. She was successful. A winner. Sherman? Not so much. At least not until she came along to give him a place where he’d be seen as something worth remembering and not some dull, little IT nerd with a paunch and receding hairline.
“He’s a real love,” Brenda said. “A total sweetheart.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Tansy changed the subject back to the audiobooks. “I have Playaways too. They are marvelous. The player comes with the audiobook.”
Brenda shook her head. “You’re very persistent, Tansy.”
Tansy brightened upon hearing her name. “Your mother must have mentioned me. I just love her. I love our chats too.”
She stopped talking, her brain processing the features of the woman standing in front of her. The hair color was different. Style too. But the eyes were the same. A flash of recognition came to her, but she couldn’t place whom it was that she was talking to. It wasn’t a dental commercial.
“You seem familiar, Denise,” she said, still thinking.
Brenda kept her smile in place.
“Besides TV commercials, you’ve seen pictures of me in Mom’s house,” she said.
“No,” Tansy said, shifting her weight as she pondered it. “That’s not it. You remind me of a celebrity.”
Brenda soaked in the attention. Being recognized when there was no danger of being caught was an undeniable turn-on.
Tansy took a step away, and started toward the van. Still thinking. Still not quite sure.
A scream came out into the yard from inside the house.
“Tansy! Help me!”
Tansy spun around, her eyes full of concern. “Your mom’s calling for help.”
Brenda gave her a cold, blank stare.
“What’s the matter with you? She sounds hurt,” Tansy said, the volume of her voice rising with each word. And then something came to her. She took a step away from the woman with the dead-eyed expression. “Hey, I know you. I have seen you on the news.” Her eyes widened with terror.
Brenda’s eyes left Tansy and she gave a slight nod.
Tansy turned a quarter turn to see who Brenda Nevins had signaled—and for what.
As quietly as the cats that Tansy so loved, Sherman Wilder snuck up from behind the library lady and swung a shovel as hard as he could. It smacked Tansy. Hard. Her glasses flew across the porch. Blood sprayed on the screen door and onto Brenda’s light blue blouse. Tansy went down in a silent heap.
Brenda looked down in horror.
“Damn you, Sherman, this stain will never come out,” she said, picking at the spatter that freckled the fabric. “I loved this top. It belonged to Janie. Janie was very important to me. Without her, I wouldn’t be with you.”
Sherman let the shovel fall from his hands as he bent down and hovered over Tansy. He looked at her with eyes that, while not as ice-cold as his lover’s, were devoid of emotion. He felt her throat for a pulse.
“She looks it,” Brenda said. “Is she?”
Sherman’s eyes met Brenda’s. “She’s dead,” he said. “Sorry about the blood, babe. I guess I just don’t know my own strength.”
From the bedroom window where she’d somehow summoned the strength to drag her frail body, Violet Wilder had let out a mournful cry. If she had thought that the evil that had visited her home had only come in the pretty package of Brenda Nevins she’d been so wrong, so fooled. Her son. He was nothing like she’d raised him to be. She’d taught him to be kind, generous, and thoughtful. She’d lived her entire adult life believing that he had been all those things. Not anymore.
He’d just killed Tansy, the library lady.
* * *
“Stop your blubbering,” Brenda said, suddenly standing over Violet with a pleased look on her face. She held out her hand for Violet to grip, but the old woman refused the gesture. She stared upward, her eyes hard, angry. Her heart was pounding hard enough she hoped it would give her that merciful heart attack and send her on her way to heaven. And to Alec. She wondered how she would explain what had brought her to him.
What their son had done to a woman he didn’t even know.
“Get away from me!” she said. “You’re a monster.”
Brenda thrust her hand in Violet’s direction a second time, but Violet refused to take it.
“Such a defiant old bag, Mom.”
Violet was having a difficult time breathing. Part of her didn’t want any air in her lungs.
“Why did you have to do that to Tansy?” she asked. “What that hell is the matter with you? What kind of people are you?”
“We’re family, honey,” Brenda said, loving everything about the day’s events.
Except for that stain on her blue top. That still made her cross.
“Get out of my house,” Violet said. “Go. You and Sherman. Pack up. The police will be here. You’ll be sorry when you get caught.”
“You make me want to laugh my ass off,” Brenda said. “I have been caught. Only once. And there’s no do-over in that department. You have no idea who I am, not really. Tansy knew. I saw it in her eyes, that magnificent flash of fear that comes when a rabbit is about to be ea
ten by a coyote. A mouse by a snake.”
“You make me sick,” Violet said. “I don’t even know what you are.”
“I’m what everyone will talk about,” Brenda said. “I will never be forgotten.”
She poked her fist at Violet.
“Go away! The police will come looking for Tansy. Why did you hurt her? She’s not involved in whatever it is that you two have been doing. She’s just a librarian, for God’s sake.”
“Collateral damage,” Brenda said. “The police won’t come. You know that, don’t you?”
“They will,” Violet said. “They’ll miss her. She has family. Friends. She’s very well liked.”
Brenda lowered herself and grabbed Violet’s hand and swung the old woman to her feet. A bone snapped. Maybe more than one. In agony, Violet couldn’t be sure what was happening to her. The old woman cried out, but it only made Brenda pull harder. She twisted Violet’s arms as she dragged her across what had been a spotless kitchen floor. Her feet left parallel lines of blood as the skin of her heels sheared off.
“You are hurting me,” she cried out. “Please stop.”
Brenda kept going, stepping out the door over the bloody smear that indicated where Tansy had been killed. Her body was gone. The library van was gone too.
Violet tried to gather the strength to move her legs beneath her while Brenda dragged her toward the barn. Even in her misery, knowing that this was the end of her life, she managed to take in the surroundings. The outbuildings. The chicken house. The laundry line. The massive and in-desperate-need-of-a-good pruning Jonagold trees that made up the outside row of the orchard. Some of the shapes were blurry, but she knew what they were and how many happy memories she’d had there.
Violet fell like a bundle of sticks when Brenda shoved open the barn door. “Get up. I’m tired of dragging you around.”
Violet managed to get to her feet. She wondered if she was already dead and if it was her spirit leaving her body, heading toward heaven. She could stagger. Brenda tugged at her and she kept her balance. She looked down at the red patches of blood pooling and spreading over her knees. They didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt. She wasn’t crying.
