Earl bellowed so loudly that Daryl nearly jumped to his feet. Twirling around, he drove his beefy fist into the wall and splinters of particle board flew from the jagged hole that had suddenly appeared around his wrist.
“Mona!”
Even the walls couldn’t muffle the panic in the voice that drifted in from outside.
“Get out of the house, baby! They’re home! Get out of the house!”
Jerking his hand out of the wall, Earl’s eye caught movement through the thin curtains and he yanked them back just in time to see Matt disappear into the woods that bordered the house.
“Son of a bitch! I’ll fuckin’ kill your ass and have it for dinner!”
He shot a cold stare at Daryl who, at some point, had stood.
“It was him. Which means that bitch of his is still around somewheres. You find her, Daryl. You find her and you make her pay, hear? “
Earl hoisted the gun so that it was nearly pressed against his cheek and the look in his eyes almost made it seem as if he were about the give the weapon a passionate kiss.
“You find her and you make her curse God for the day she was born . . . and I’ll take care of that sorry-ass pretty boy.”
Daryl and Earl grinned at each other but the light of happiness never touched their eyes. For these were grins of savage glee . . . .
SCENE FOURTEEN
Following Matt into the woods was as easier than tracking a wounded buck. His footprints were pressed down into the snow like molds; and, in places where the drifts were deeper, long gouges cut through the white powder. The man may have as well been leaving signposts every step of the way that had little arrows pointing in the right direction. As long as the trail was there, Earl would lumber after it with his heart pounding out the rhythm to a war dance.
“You can’t hide, boy!”
His voice echoed through the tightly packed trees as if it were scouring the landscape for its prey.
“May as well just give up now and save us both a ton of trouble. Might be five minutes. Might be half an hour. But I’m a’gonna kill ya. Mark my words.”
Only the soft rustling of the boughs overhead answered Earl’s calls. They swished against one another in a wind that almost seemed afraid to drift down to ground level where the red-faced man huffed through the snow. The pine needles were covered with snow and the gentle movement made flakes drift down from the canopy overhead as if flurries were starting up again.
“You hear me? Come out now and I’ll make sure my brother doesn’t make that whore of yours suffer to much. Daryl likes those dark haired ladies. He could have himself a real good time with the likes of her. Unless, that is, I stop him.”
Earl knew he would never catch up with the man if Matt kept running. The act of walking and yelling at the same time was already making him winded and, after all the activity of the previous night, his muscles were as sore as if he’d been cutting grass for three days straight. In the same light, however, his quarry couldn’t keep up forever either. Sooner or later, a stitch would develop in the man’s side. His lungs would feel like they were on fire with every breath, just as Earl’s did now, and he’d be forced to slow his pace. The secret was to keep after him just quickly enough that once Matt’s initial burst of adrenaline started to fade Earl would begin closing the gap. Besides that, the heavyset man knew this forest. He’d spent countless hours scampering through them as a child, had poached game in them ever since he was big enough not to be knocked on his ass by the kick of a rifle; they were just as much his home as the old farmhouse with its peeling paint and rusty gutters.
So he’d save his breath and stop hurling threats to the uncaring pines. He’d follow the footprints in the snow with strides so long that he probably looked like a Sasquatch from a distance. And, when he finally closed in on the tired and hopelessly lost outsider . . . well, then the fun would really begin.
“This is for you, Mama.” He whispered. “This is for you.”
Matt skipped through the forest as if he were playing a game instead of being stalked by a cold-blooded killer. Every so often, he’d leap into the air and twirl around, kicking little puffs of snow out from under his heels. Even the cold didn’t bother him that much. His jacket kept the worst of it at bay; and any chill that managed to make it through the quilted lining was quickly defeated by the excitement that warmed his veins.
It was much quieter now that Earl had stopped trying to sound like a bad ass from some cheesy action film. Every so often, he’d hear some unseen animal crash through the underbrush and, once or twice, he’d even though he’d heard the distant chuffing of a deer.
The trees overhead were clustered so thickly together that the woods were almost in a perpetual state of twilight. He could see well enough for fifty yards ahead or so, but after that it grew progressively darker. However, that darkness seemed to be perpetually just out of reach . . . as if it were matching his pace and racing away from him as quickly as he could approach it. Which was fine by him. Chasing the darkness was something of a hobby . . . and one which he’d been doing his entire life.
The smell pine scent, the evergreens with their tall, straight trunks, and the crunch and swish of his feet passing through snow: it all made him feel as if he were nearly a decade younger. It was like he were that pimply faced fourteen year old boy again being taken to his father’s cabin for his first hunting trip.
He’d prepared for that expedition all summer long, shooting the thirty-ought-six so often that his right shoulder was perpetually bruised from the recoil and gunpowder clung to his hair and clothes like cologne. Their backyard had sparkled with shattered beer bottles and tin cans with star-shaped holes blasted into their sides. And he’d become quite the marksman. At first it had only been because he liked the way his father would rustle his hair and beam down at him every time his bullet found its mark. He’d liked the praise heaped upon him from this normally cold and distant man, had sought it as eagerly as a puppy will seek a scratch on the belly. But, over time, he’d come to take a certain pride in his skill that had nothing to do with his old man.
The secret was in pretending that the bottles were the heads of all the kids who’d ever pushed him in the playground. The bullies who’d flicked his ass with wet towels in the locker room. That garlic-smelling, fat ass bastard, Mr. French, who’d kept him after class in second grade to play the petting game. All the cute girls who’d laughed at him and made him feel like he was no better than the gum they chewed up and spit into the dirt. Even his own father for that one time Matt had came home early until to find the old man thrusting into some woman half his age who was bound and gagged just like in the magazines he’d found stashed under his old man’s bed. Matt had been beaten so badly that he could barely move for a week after and, even then, he could still hear his father’s seething voice whispering in the darkness of memory: you tell anyone about this and I swear to God no one will ever find your body. I’ll tell them you ran away, that you’d been threatening to for weeks. Not that anyone would miss you anyway . . . .
Matt’s father had been almost like a cruel god. On one level, he hated the old man so badly that it sometimes felt as if his guts had twisted themselves into knots. He fantasized about beating the man down with his Louisville slugger, of seeing him cry and beg for mercy. But, on the other hand, he yearned for those rare moments when he’d see pride glimmer in his dad’s eyes or when his large hand would clap Matt on the back as if to say “that’s my boy”. They were fleeting, but there were a handful of times when Matt had honestly felt like he had a real father.
And that initial hunting trip had been one of them. He could still remember watching the redhead zig-zag through the snow through the scope on his rifle. The dimpled skin on her bare chest, the way she’d stumble and fall, and how her bush would be clumped with tiny snowballs when she’d scramble back to her feet. His father’s voice whispering in his ear . . . .
“It’s time to become a man now, Matt.”
With his da
d, it had always been redheads and, though it could have just been a trick of memory, it seemed to Matt now as if they had all bore a striking resemblance to the pretty young woman smiling from the pictures on the mantle. The mother he’d never known. But none of them had been quite as exhilarating as the first.
He remembered standing over her and watching as steam curled from the crimson stained snow. How motionless and perfect she was in death . . . . Her blue eyes had stared up at a sky that matched their color exactly, unblinking and free from all the worries and pain and heartaches that accompanied breathing. Almost as if she were watching her soul float into the sky like a balloon that had slipped from her grasp.
His father had whooped and cackled, had scooped the frail boy into his arms, and kissed him on the forehead so wetly that it later formed a thin layer of ice. But, at that precise moment, Matt knew what it meant to bask in the approval he had so desperately chased after all his life. With his father’s arm draped over his shoulder and a dead woman at his feet, it almost seemed as if the kidnapped hooker’s soul had been consumed by his own as thoroughly as scavengers would later devour the carcass. He felt stronger and more in control than he ever had. No more was he a confused and frightened child bobbing on the waves of doubt and uncertainty; no longer would he look at other people and struggle to figure out what made them so much better than him, what magic piece they possessed in jigsaw puzzle of existence that he lacked. For he then knew the truth: all of those people with their upturned noses and downcast eyes . . . they were nothing more than cattle awaiting slaughter. Nothing more than sustenance for a predator that loomed over them from the next link in the foodchain. And each and every one of them was his for the taking.
With his mind firmly back in the present, Matt glanced over his shoulder to see is he could spot the plodding Neanderthal through the thick cover of trees. His gaze was met with nothing more than a pair of birds hopping from branch to branch and his own footsteps trailing back into the depths of the forest. Frowning, he scratched his chin for a moment as he thought.
Maybe this oaf was smarter than Matt had given him credit for. As he’d thought about his father, he’d purposefully slowed his pace to the point that ice could have almost melted more quickly. Driven on by anger and adrenaline, the overweight beast should have at least been close enough by now to be glimpsed as a silhouette moving through the bushes and trunks . But there was nothing.
Had his pursuer changed tactics then? Perhaps instead of blindly following wherever the tracks led him, he was circling around and planning to cut Matt off at some point further into the woods. He hadn’t seemed too much brighter than the skinny one, but there was the chance that he was operating off pure instinct now and allowing his actions to be controlled by a much more primal portion of the brain.
It would be better to be safe than sorry, as Mona always said; he’d adapt his own tactics, as well. Change his initial plan into something that would work no matter what situation presented itself. On the off chance that fat behemoth was more cagey than at first he’d seemed, Matt would have to improvise, adapt, and overcome . . . .
That thought brought a smile to his face as he removed the object that was slung over his shoulder and scouted his surroundings with eyes that noted every detail with microscopic clarity. He could feel the excitement tingle his arms and legs, could smell every scent on the crisp air as clearly as if he’d been born a wolf, and hear the slightest rustle in the snow. He was the primary predator in these woods and everything else simply existed to serve his needs.
From somewhere close by, an unseen deer crashed through the undergrowth as if it had suddenly sensed danger on this otherwise peaceful, winter morning. As if it somehow knew that blood would soon darken the forest floor and evil would roll across the landscape like a roiling fog.
“Let’s do this, Fat Man . . . . It’s time to play.”
Earl couldn’t help it. He’d had to stop and catch his breath for a moment, to give his lungs time to gulp down the cold air and refuel his body. If he hadn’t have been up all damn night running errands for Mama, then it may have been different; but, as it was, his back pressed against the rough bark of a tree while he leaned forward. With his hands resting on slightly bent knees, he tried to listen past the sound of his own gasps for the tell-tale sounds that would gave away his prey’s location. But with his throat rattling with every gulp of air and his heart beating so hard that it almost sounded like the thumping of a low-flying helicopter, he was lucky that he could even hear his own thoughts.
“Son of a bitch . . . shit . . . .”
The frigid bite of the air had spread into the metal of the gun and it now felt as if he carried a block of ice solidly in his hand. From his back pocket, the fingers from a pair of green work gloves waved at his ass and he was tempted to slip them on, even if it were only for a little bit. The numbing cold made his knuckles and joints feel as stiff and unresponsive as an engine that had been running without oil. Even just five minutes would be enough to chase away the needles of pain that nicked his exposed flesh.
“Gotta be ready.” He reminded himself. “Gotta be prepared.”
It was, after all, hard enough for him to force his rounded index finger through the trigger guard as it was. He had just enough room to feel the frosty curve of metal against the crook of that finger. Just enough space that he would be able to squeeze off a shot at a moment’s notice. With the thick, cotton gloves on, he’d be lucky to get even his fingernail into position: it would be like trying to shove a pig into a bucket.
Besides, what was a little discomfort compared to what those bastards must have put Mama through? If he couldn’t even put up with some discomfort in order to have his revenge, then he was never really deserving of her love to begin with and no better than that good for nothing brother of his.
“Don’t know for certain that she’s dead.” Part of his mind insisted. “What did ya really see? Nothin’ more than a pair of glasses and a bit of blood. Blood coulda been from that blond bitch. And the glasses coulda broke when they fell off.”
Earl would have liked to believe this quiet voice in the back of his mind. He would have loved to think that Mama was back at the house, hiding somewhere while she listened for the familiar sound of her sons’ footsteps. Perhaps under the sink like a frightened little mouse. Or wedged into the closet-sized space behind the false paneling where they stashed the jewelry, clothing, and other personal effects of those who were unfortunate enough to be brought into their home. There were a thousand places in the farmhouse that a nimble old woman could lay low.
But, deep down inside, Earl knew this wasn’t the case. It was a certainty that felt like a hollow pit somewhere between his gut and chest and he wondered, for a moment, if this was how a mother felt after carrying a child in her womb for the better part of a year. To have this life suddenly gone after being accustomed to its weight for so long. This pit that was now as empty as a shallow grave waiting to be filled.
Earl’s eye stung and he tried to tell himself that it was only because they were dry and tired. Real men didn’t cry. Real men pushed it all back inside and fed off its bitter aftertaste like a baby bird being force fed worms and insects. It made them stronger, made them able to get up and do what needed to be done. Crying was for sissy boys like Daryl; tears were why that little pansy was cut up and whimpering in the dark while Earl was rewarded with Mama’s special treats. As long as he remained a man, Earl was able to enjoy the pleasures that accompanied it: the soft squish of a boob squeezed in his hand; the musty scent of a woman’s most secret place . . . and Mama’s voice, whispering in his ear that it was okay, that this was what men did to women, that it was natural that it felt good.
Earl’s head snapped up as if it were spring-loaded. In the distance, he could just make out something slipping through the maze of trees. Partially obscured by darkness, it was nothing more than a moving shadow. But it was large. And there was only one thing it could be.
“Gotcha
now, mother fucker.”
He raised the pistol at arm’s length, squeezed one eye shut, and sighted down the barrel. With a fluid grace that seemed out of place, he tracked the bastard’s movements slowly, always making sure that the little nub of metal on the end of the gun was slightly in front of his target.
And then, as he exhaled, his finger flexed. The pistol kicked in his hand as strongly as if something had slammed against the underside of his wrist. Fire licked from the muzzle and a puff of almost sulfuric smelling smoke billowed into the air as the roar of the gun boomed through the clearing.
The moving shadow toppled like it had tripped over some hidden obstacle and stumbled to the ground. For a second, Earl kept the weapon trained on the little mound of darkness that was just visible between the stand of trees; but it didn’t try to get back up. It didn’t kick or thrash or bellow in pain.
“Damn, Dead Eye,” he mumbled into his frost-coated beard, “one shot.”
Still, he had to be sure that son of a bitch wasn’t playing possum. He had to make certain the murdering asshole was really down for good.
He pulled the trigger two more times in rapid succession and watched as the body jolted with each impact. Nodding his head with satisfaction, Earl stomped through the snow while the high pitched ringing leftover from the gunfire filled his head like an announcement from the Emergency Broadcast System.
There was no way someone could just lay there and take two slugs like that. No one that was still alive.
“And that, retard,” he said to his absent brother, “is what it takes to be a man.”
SCENE FIFTEEN
Searching the bottom floor of the house had proven pointless. Daryl had opened every closet, looked behind any piece of furniture that was caddy-corner with the walls, and had even went as far as checking the cupboards in the kitchen. Cobwebs clung to his mustache and the knees of his pants were dusty from where he’d crouched on the floor and peered underneath Mama’s bed. He’d noticed the record player and speakers laying on the floor, surrounded by drops of dried blood as if they had jumped to their death; and there were also cinders and ash scattered . . . almost as if something had disturbed the remains of the fire. So he’d stooped as low as he could and peered up into the darkness of the chimney as the lingering warmth from the hearth radiated over a face now smeared with soot.
Shut The Fuck Up And Die! Page 13
