Matt dropped to his knees and crawled through the fence-enclosed pen. Trying to stay within the pig herd, he grabbed at them, but they raced off in other directions. Matt reached the outer fence. Looking at his mud-covered hands gave him an idea. He caked mud onto his face, his shirt and arms, camouflage for the night.
The pigs’ squealing fury built up. As he pulled up on the fence, splinters pierced his hands.
“Hello, again, Mattie.” Peter faced him on the opposite side of the fence. Brandishing a knife and wearing goggles, he looked like a giant insect with particularly nasty pincers.
Matt fell into the mud, scrabbling backward.
Peter climbed the fence. “You can run but you can’t hide, Matt. I know it’s an old cliché, but honestly, it’s true.”
“Peter, why are you doing this?” Matt screamed, not caring who heard him anymore. “Why?”
Peter leapt agilely into the pen, always the athlete. “We really don’t have time for a lengthy discussion now, Mattie.”
“For God’s sake, Peter! You’re my brother. My protector. You—” Matt pulled himself out of the mud. He stared into Peter’s eyes. “Peter, remember the last time we were here? In the barn?”
It took a minute for Peter’s reply. “Yes.”
“And do you remember what you told me?”
“I don’t remember, no.” But Matt knew he was lying…
After his father soaked him with the hose, Matt dutifully stood where he’d been told to stay. Didn’t have a choice in the matter. Of course it was barbaric, absolutely so. But Edwin was his father. Love him or hate him, he felt duty-bound to show him respect.
Freezing, he rubbed his shoulders. The kitchen door quietly opened and closed. He cried with relief when he saw it was Peter, not Edwin returning to administer more punishment.
“P…Peter?”
“Here, Matt, take it.” Peter draped a blanket around Matt’s shoulders. “Come on.” He took Matt’s hand, leading him to the barn.
“Stay the night in here. I’ll get up before the ol’ bastard and wake you so you can go back to where you’re supposed to be.” Peter handed him a chicken leg. “Eat it.”
Matt wolfed down the chicken, then gnawed at the bone for the marrow. “Thanks.”
“Matt, don’t listen to him.”
“What if he’s right? What if I’m too stupid for college?”
“He’s not right. You can do it.”
“I don’t know any more. What if God means for me to stay here on the farm?”
“That’s just what the bastard wants you to think, Matt. You need to do something for yourself. Make your life better. Go to college.”
“You really think I can do it, Peter?” Matt’s eyes lit up.
“Yes, I do.” Peter squeezed his brother’s hand. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving soon.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know, but it sure as hell’s gotta’ be better than this.” Peter stood up, flicking hay from his jeans.
“Peter?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.” Matt had never told Peter this before, but it was true. Peter appeared confused by the sentiment, various expressions passing over his face.
“I love you, too, Matt,” Peter said to the ground. Then he fled the barn.
“‘I love you, too, Matt.’ That’s what you said.”
Peter shook his head and sighed. “Different planet, Mattie. What’s in the past stays in the past. Things change. Now, it’s just the present and my future that matters.” He took a step toward Matt.
Matt turned and stumbled over a pig. His foot skated across the mud before he regained his balance. Peter laughed, his feet squelching in pursuit behind Matt.
Matt whirled. Reasoning didn’t work. Nor did appealing to the brother he remembered from childhood. Time to fight for his life. Matt dropped into a squat, hands thrust out.
“Come on, Matt! You know you can’t take me. Never could, never will. I mean, look at yourself.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m not going without a fight.”
“Okay, then, let’s do this, Mattie.” Peter ripped off his goggles and tossed them to the ground. He crouched, slashing the knife through the air. They circled one another, each waiting for the first move. Matt’s feet weighed heavy in the mud, sticking with each step.
Matt leapt. His weight took both of them splashing down. Pigs scurried away from the fray. Matt grasped Peter’s knife. His hand slipped along the blade, cutting deeply. Fighting through the pain, Matt clawed at Peter’s hand again.
Peter landed a blow on Matt’s chin. Stunned, he fell back. With his fingers wrapped around Matt’s throat, Peter squeezed. Matt tore at Peter’s face with his fingernails, drawing tears of blood across his cheeks. Peter straddled his brother then raised the knife. Matt blocked the knife’s trajectory with his forearm. The tip of the knife bit into his flesh before sailing away. Peter flailed his hand about in the muck, searching for the knife. Then Matt punched him in the groin. Repeatedly.
Peter groaned. He rolled off, folding into a fetal position. Matt tried to stand, but crashed back down. He crawled back into the barn, faster than trying to right himself. Behind him, Peter splashed through the mud, gaining speed.
Inside the dark barn, Matt sprang to his feet, slamming his face into the fence. His teeth cut into his lip. He clambered over it. Peter snagged his left foot, pulling him down. Matt kicked back with a satisfying connection. Peter yelped, releasing Matt’s foot.
Matt groped blindly for the gate’s latch. He pulled the latch loose and kicked open the gate. Matt jumped astride the gate, screaming, “Here, pig, pig, pig!” in the high-pitched manner his father had taught him. “Where, pig, pig, pig!” As the pigs thundered into the open barn, they rushed toward Peter. Peter collapsed beneath the rampage.
Matt fumbled his hand over the tool shelf. Moonlight from the window highlighted a handle in the corner. A rusty scythe, still very sharp. And deadly. Matt raised it and spun around to meet his brother.
Peter had found his knife. Pointing the mud-caked blade at Matt, he held out his other hand, fingers splayed.
“Don’t make me do it, Peter!” cried Matt. “I will! Just let us go!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do that. It’s too late.” Peter lunged. Matt countered, lowering the scythe between them. Peter jumped again, pinning Matt against the window. With a whoosh, Matt brought the scythe down. He missed as Peter hopped back a step.
“Come on, Matt! Just drop the goddamn thing!”
Matt raised the scythe again. He pressed forward, forcing it down, hard. The metal sliced into flesh and bone. Three of Peter’s fingers flew through the air. Blood flowered over the hay-covered floor.
“Jesus Christ!” Pinpoints of light dotted Peter’s peripheral vision. Numb, he stared at his hand. Nothing but a thumb and pinky finger remained. Nausea burned his stomach. Time stood still. Peter ridiculously thought of a chocolate fountain when he looked at his hand, the kind his wife loved. Three streams of dark chocolate gurgled down to the ground. Just not chocolate.
Awareness returned, sparked by fiery pain. Peter dropped to his knees. He moved fast, searching for his detached digits amongst the rampaging pigs. To his right, two pigs engaged in tug-of-war, fighting over one of his fingers.
“No! Jesus, God!” He plunged the knife again and again into one of the pigs. Its shrieks grew with each stab. The pig flopped over, the finger dropping from its maw. The other pig raced for the spoils of victory. Peter slit its throat. He moaned when he fished the masticated finger out of the pig’s mouth. Nothing but a lump of bone and gristle. Peter ran his good hand across the ground. Unbelievably, the remaining fingers were intact.
Peter trembled, in shock. He ripped off his shirt and cut it in half. Cradling his two detached fingers in one-half of the shirt, he slid them into his pocket. With the other rag, he tied a makeshift tourniquet over his mauled hand. Blood seeped through the white cotton.
&n
bsp; Matt cowered by the window, cradling his instrument of death.
“What have you done, Matt? What have you done?” Peter bolted out of the barn. His legs wobbled, threatening to give out. Behind him, he heard his brother heaving.
What if that fucking pig ate the finger that triggers my ignition? Peter fished his keys out of his pocket and opened the car door. He took his fingers out of his pocket and placed one in the auto-ignition device. Nothing. Peter cried. First time in many years. Sobbing loudly, he inserted the other detached finger into the compartment. The car turned over. Peter released a triumphant roar.
Okay, Peter, get yourself together. He laughed as he recognized the irony of the thought. Like Humpty-Dumpty, he needed to be put back together again.
He had to get to the hospital in Karlin as soon as possible. Maybe they could reattach his two fingers. Then he’d be on his way. Peter turned his car around. Blood ran down his arm and onto his leather interior.
Be careful. Think straight!
He had already concocted a scenario to tell the emergency room doctors. Farming accident, a no-brainer in these parts. And he’d need an alias. He’d burn his wallet on the way or toss it into the river. Knowing small towns, the doctors would work on his hand first before asking for insurance. Once patched up, he’d simply leave. Sneak out, if necessary, leaving nothing behind connecting him to the occurrences in Godwin, Kansas.
Life was over for “Peter Brookes”. Time to “kill” his alter ego. Too many loose ends—his father, brother, niece. Just a matter of time before the authorities put it all together.
It was good to have plan B. Peter had several offshore accounts and enough assets to liquidate with a simple phone call. He could still live life as a very wealthy man. New identification would be easy enough to procure. He’d mastered it before. Leaving the country sounded like his best bet. The Caribbean might be nice this time of year.
Peter would never see his children or wife again. A blessing in disguise. God’s plan.
He mustered a smile, ironically unaware of it.
His foot slipped off the gas pedal at the end of the driveway. The car ambled into the ditch, hit a telephone pole, and clanked to a stop. His head fell forward onto the steering wheel, the horn blaring into the night.
The Caribbean…
Chapter Fourteen
As soon as Edwin reached his driveway, he knew things had gone south. Peter’s car sat in the ditch, the horn blasting to high hell. Edwin whipped the truck into the driveway and jumped out. Wrenching the car door open, he pulled his son’s head off the horn. Damned fool idiot! Based on the amount of blood soaking the car’s interior, Edwin reckoned him dead. Just another thing he’d have to tidy up. Even dead, Peter was a pain in his ass.
But if Joshua took care of his granddaughter, who had done this to Peter? Maybe Joshua? Edwin would be sure to fill Joshua’s food bucket to the brim before he left tonight. A going away gift for his son’s fine work.
He gunned the truck toward the house. From the barn, the pigs raised a holy ruckus. And his damned dog wouldn’t shut his yap.
By the dim light, Matt watched the pigs gnaw at their dead brethren.
He replayed the carnage repeatedly in his mind, a stomach-churning film-loop. He’d never forget the look of shock on Peter’s face—the betrayal—when he sliced his fingers off. Matt didn’t want to do it, but he had no other choice. Peter meant to kill him. And if Matt died, Shannon would die as well. Kill or be killed. Simple as that.
So why did he feel sick? He spent several minutes throwing up until he had nothing left to vomit.
Matt refocused. Shannon. The most important factor. He had to get her to safety. With the scythe clutched in one hand, he searched for Peter’s knife. Nudging the pigs away with his elbow, his fingertips grazed over the knife’s blade in the hay. He slid it into his pocket.
Then the car horn blasted, long and steady. Shannon trying to grab the attention of inexistent neighbors? He stumbled toward the barn entrance.
The car horn stopped. From the barn door, he watched Edwin’s truck amble down the drive. The headlights flashed over the barn entrance, forcing Matt to jump back. Behind him, a growl, lower than the pig’s squeals, emerged. The hound dog. The growl erupted into a rapid succession of barks.
Matt knelt. “Here, boy,” he whispered. “Come here, boy.” The barking continued. Matt jumped, forcing his weight on top of the dog, restraining it to the floor. “I’m sorry, boy. Just, shhh. Please…shhh.” The dog nipped, hooking Matt’s finger on a tooth. He managed a hand around the dog’s jaw, holding it shut. The dog struggled, shaking its head. “Quiet, boy!” Matt scooted up, covering the dog’s jaw with his chest. Although old, the dog bucked Matt up before falling flat on its back. The dog shuddered. Matt pressed harder until the dog quit moving. He stayed in that position for a seeming eternity. He rolled off the dog. The dog’s chest felt warm to the touch, unmoving. Matt’s stomach heaved again as he blinked back tears. “I’m really sorry, boy.” He stroked the dog’s coat. “I’m sorry…”
Matt seethed with hatred. Peter’s last words echoed in his mind. What have you done to me, Matt? Matt wanted to ask the same thing of his father. Before tonight, Matt respected all life. He used to move insects outside rather than swat them. But his father had reduced him to a killer. First, his brother and now, an innocent animal.
I’ve come this far. It’s time to finish it.
Covered in mud and blood, Matt stalked toward the farmhouse for the final showdown.
Finally, the dog stopped its yapping. Probably in a tizzy over Peter’s car horn.
As he opened the kitchen door, Edwin froze in his tracks. In Godland, there’d never been any reason to lock up the house. But what about his money? What if the stranger from the abandoned car robbed him?
He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the bag sitting on the kitchen floor. Stopping inside the doorway, he listened for sounds of an intruder. The linoleum squeaked beneath his feet as he took a few tentative steps. Other than that, he heard nothing but the usual settling of the house, small clicks and sighs and bad pipes in the walls.
But something filled him with tension. One of those feelings you can’t quite put your finger on.
He raised his rifle and peered up the stairwell.
“Joshua? Joshua! You here, boy?” He waited. A heavy silence.
Where is that damned fool boy? He surely had time to make it back by now. Maybe he was indulging his manhood, having fun with his sister. Or what remained of her. Well, the boy sure had earned himself some recreation.
Originally, Edwin had planned to leave in the morning before Joshua woke. Easier that way. Now that things had gone belly-up, he figured it best to err on the side of caution. Time to hasten his departure.
Edwin entered his bedroom. He pulled the solitary suitcase he and Gretchen owned from under the bed. Not like they’d ever used it before, either. It had been a wedding gift. The suitcase’s lid cracked like a jag of lightning, cheap plastic material flaking off in his hands. But it would do just fine until Edwin reached Florida. Might even buy a new suitcase once there.
The kitchen door creaked open then crept to a close. Probably Joshua, but then again, since when did the dimwit not slam the door? He grabbed his rifle.
“What in the hell?” In the kitchen, covered in muck, the stranger’s eyes nearly glowed white, crazed looking. Edwin cocked the gun and aimed. “Don’t you move none or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off! Who are you? What do you want?” Scythe in hand, the intruder resembled the Grim Reaper. One last challenge sent from God.
The man placed the scythe by the stove, pulled out a chair, and sat quietly at the kitchen table. He craned his head, taking in the sights of the kitchen. “Hello, Father.” His voice remained measured despite his hellish appearance.
Edwin lowered the rifle and cautiously approached the man. “What’d you say?”
“I said…hello, Father.”
Edwin thought he recognized the
pathetic, weak voice, but couldn’t be certain. “Matthew?”
“That’s right. It’s Matt. I’ve returned to Godland.”
“Well, I’ll be tarred and feathered and dipped in shit.” Doubled over laughing, he sat down at the opposite end of the table. “I’ll be goddamned!”
“Yes, you will.”
“What did you say, boy?”
Matt answered him with a blank stare.
Edwin swayed his hat through the air. “If this ain’t a day for the books. This is one helluva’ family reunion.” He slapped his knee, bringing up a small wisp of dust. “What are you doing here? Where’s Mary?” Bugging his eyes out, he playfully peeked underneath the kitchen table like a child.
Matt slammed his fists down on the table. “You ruined her!”
“You watch your mouth in my house, boy.” An uneasy feeling crept over Edwin. A sense of menace. He swept the rifle up again. “Why’re you here, Matthew?”
“I’m going to kill you, old man,” Matt shot back. Grabbing the kitchen table, he upended it, sending dirty dishes clattering to the floor. Edwin’s chair splintered as he crashed to the floor, a grotesque piñata. Matt landed on top of him, along with the table. Even with his arms restrained, Edwin managed to hold onto the rifle. But he couldn’t edge it out to kill his son. Yet.
Matt pressed down on the table crushing the life out of his father. No regrets. He had walked into the house where he’d grown up with every intention of killing his father. Once you’ve walked through hell, murder didn’t seem so bad.
“Wait…a…minute…boy,” croaked Edwin. “Let…me…explain.”
“Too late.” Edwin put up a surprisingly solid fight. But he always was a strong bastard.
“I can…give…you money! Lots and lots…of money…”
Matt stopped. He eased up, keeping his hands firmly on the table. “What?” Against his better judgment, curiosity drew him in.
“Get this goddamn table off me and I’ll tell you.”
Godland Page 16
