by J. Conrad
“Goddamn it, Elizabeth,” I said. I didn’t like having my inner demons stirred up, this ancient history unearthed while being expected to answer up as though I hadn’t been punished enough already. “Yes. It’s true.”
She shook her head, barely looking at me. “How do I know you’re not keeping anything else from me?”
Well, she didn’t know. That’s what trust is supposed to be. It’s when you don’t know every little detail of a person’s life, but you have faith in them anyway.
“I didn’t think it mattered because it was so long ago. And no. I’m not keeping anything from you.” And that was true. I wasn’t.
She nodded, but kept shifting her gaze around and wouldn’t look at me. She sighed and wiped her face, smearing the black streaks from her eye makeup.
“Okay, but I still think we need some time apart. I just need to figure some things out.”
I shook my head again. “I really don’t understand. But if that’s what you want –”
“Yeah. It’s for the best.” She got up from the chair and picked up her purse from beside the couch. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
“Okay,” I said. I blinked, watching in numb bewilderment as she went out the door. She didn’t even turn around. A hollow feeling swallowed me up and I sat there, wooden and useless, wondering what to make of it.
CHAPTER THREE
January 5th
Arriving home after discovering the atrocity against human life, I unlocked the door with quivering fingers and shoved it open. I exhaled loudly and deeply several times, closing the door behind me and locking it again. I did a quick visual sweep of the house. I was startled to see the place so neat and tidy, then remembered I had cleaned the crap out of it before all hell broke loose during my walk.
The grim alarm from all my new experiences was waning. I cooked some frozen chicken and fries and ate until my stomach hurt. Then, utterly exhausted and weak in the legs, I lay in bed and tossed and turned. I couldn’t stop those images from flashing intrusively through my mind, couldn’t get that awful stench out of my nostrils even though it was long gone. The sight of the girl against the wall was the absolute worst: her white dress streaked blood red, her wilted posture as she hung there, defeated and broken. I tried to shake it off and sleep.
After two or three hours of an unease that threatened to never let go, I finally lapsed into a full, dreamless unconsciousness that lasted for about five hours. Then my eyes snapped open and I sat up. I looked at the clock and saw that it was just before 5:00 a.m. Today was Monday and I had to go to work. With Tim being in custody as a murder suspect, this might present a problem.
I turned on the news and watched for the story as I made breakfast.
“Williamson County officials are investigating the recovery of two women, one dead and one still alive after being severely beaten and tortured, from an abandoned house on County Road 118. A resident of Williamson County reportedly discovered the women in a back room of the structure at approximately 4:30 p.m., yesterday, after smelling a foul odor. The resident has chosen to remain anonymous. Tim Corbin, the owner of the derelict property, has been taken into custody by the Williamson County Sheriff’s Office and is undergoing questioning. The identities of the victims have not yet been released to KXAV, however, we have been told that the surviving victim has been taken into care at St. David’s Hospital and is in critical condition.”
Other than the anchorwoman saying there would be more updates later as the news team was apprised of them, that was the end of the story. But she had said the woman was in critical condition – so she was still alive.
I thought about Tim. Poor Tim. It was pretty hard to believe anyone would be stupid enough to hide the victims’ bodies in a house which he owned, not to mention driving to the crime scene afterwards and speaking to law enforcement. I shook my head. The whole thing was insane.
My mind continued playing the torrent of images like a horror movie on repeat. I tried to shut them out as much as possible, but couldn’t get rid of them completely. Forgetting that scene might take a while. I realized that other than the deputy sheriff I had spoken to last night, or the bystanders who gaped at us, no one knew about this. None of my friends or acquaintances knew I was the “resident” who discovered the crime. Maybe it would be best to keep it that way until the guy was caught.
I thought of the woman in the black jacket and I wondered if she, or anyone else, had snapped a photo of me. A lot of wary eyes had been pointed my way. I now questioned standing off to the side like that, staying so close to the yard. It would have been better if I’d joined the spectators. But I wasn’t thinking. I blamed the morbid part of myself, the side of me that wanted front row seats to the show. I just had to see.
As I wolfed down my bacon and eggs, showered and shaved, I thought of what to do about work. Tim’s wife, Brenda, should be home and I could report to her for the time being. The hours for my job on the ranch were Monday through Friday from 6 o’clock to noon and I had shifts at the gas station a few times a week and on some weekends.
It was odd, but the small house I was renting and my job at the ranch were closely related. The house is on a decent-sized plot of land, which is part of a much larger property of about two thousand acres belonging to Tim Corbin. This is the same Tim I work for; the same Tim who was hauled off to the station. He owns quite a bit of land adjacent to this rental, as well as some on County Road 118 that includes the murder house. He operates a ranch which raises mostly cattle, sheep and goats.
My work at Corbin Ranch wasn’t bad and consisted mostly of feeding animals, repairing fences, keeping up the barns, and more recently, bottle-feeding lambs whose mothers’ had rejected them. The pay could have been better, but it was steady work, and I found this job right after I moved by virtue of renting the house. One upside was that the ranch was so close I could walk there when I liked. It’s on the same rural road where I live, but today I decided to take my truck.
I drove past the wooden barn where I usually park and continued to Tim’s driveway, where I turned and pulled up to the light yellow two-story. Tim’s truck wasn’t there, which made me think it was either still on County Road 118 or had been impounded. I knocked on the door and it flew open a few seconds later.
“Trent,” Brenda said. She looked at me with wide, puffy red eyes. Her brown shoulder-length hair had been hastily put up with clips. “Come in.”
“How are you, Ms. Brenda?” I asked.
“How dare you ask,” she said, sniffing and forcing a laugh. “It’s been terrible. It’s crazy, I just can’t believe it.” She motioned for me to take a seat.
“I know. Is Tim still being questioned by the sheriff?” I asked.
“Yeah. Being held in jail is more like it, but yeah. He’s still there. I haven’t heard anything else since last night when he called me.” She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me.
“What makes them think he did it?” I asked.
She huffed and took a seat across from me on the sofa. “Well, it’s our house! What more do they need?”
“Yeah, but come on. He drove out there yesterday to speak with the officers. I saw him, he was a nervous wreck. What grounds do they have to hold him besides being the owner of the property? That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know that, but… I don’t know.” She sipped from her mug and stared blankly at the gray carpet under the mahogany coffee table. “I just don’t know.”
“I’m sure they’ll release him soon.”
“Hope so,” she said. She leaned forward and set her cup down. “Trent, I know this a morbid question, but what did you see?” She rubbed her nose, and I knew she felt guilty for asking.
Well, I couldn’t blame her for wondering.
* * * * *
Brenda’s curiosity satisfied and my condolences extended for her difficult time, we established that I’d continue work as usual, on my standard schedule. At this point we didn’t know much and with Tim in custody I’d be needed mor
e than ever.
I parked my truck near the barn and got ready for the day. It wasn’t raining, but the weather wasn’t any warmer or more inviting. I walked through the sheep pasture under a bleak sky that seemed devoid of color. Milk thistle and dry weeds made papery rattling sounds in the breeze. Although the wind was biting my face, I’d quickly learned that the right clothing for this job was a necessity. My ears and hands were covered, I had long johns under my jeans and four shirts on, so for the most part I was pretty warm. I made my way to the small pond at the end of the field, not for any particular reason besides that I liked having a look at it as the first thing each morning. I was still trying to clear my head and this routine might help.
Tall, wilted grasses and reeds dipped into the dark water, its still surface rippling in only a few places by three small mallards. A dilapidated dock, which was no longer used, tumbled gracefully into the water. The center of the pond was so black, so motionless, it appeared to be a mysterious thing of its own that harbored some deep secret. In actuality, the man-made water hole had been dug out for the livestock and went only about twenty feet down. Tim told me he stocks this little pond every year and I’m welcome to fish here any time.
Over by the graying outbuildings, the sheep were already milling around, waiting for me. They weren’t the white fluffy ones which I’d previously thought all sheep were. These were all colors: black, brown, tan and even spotted. Surprisingly, a few of the ewes had lambs already. I trudged to the feed shed, watching my breath turn into puffs of mist, and filled a bucket with grain. I carried it to the sawed-in-half plastic barrel that Tim had made into a trough. Some of the sheep were tame enough to shove their noses into the bucket while I was pouring. I didn’t need to put out hay because there was a large roll of it crammed into a wire sectional feeder. Sometimes I’ve seen one or two of the sheep climb up there and stand on top of the bale. I have no idea why.
I made sure the metal water trough was full, then I went into the old barn, cleaned out the dung as needed and put new straw down. My cell phone rang and I jumped. I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at the caller ID. It wasn’t Tim. It wasn’t her, either. I wasn’t hopeful anymore and I didn’t care. This number was one I didn’t recognize with an Illinois area code. Without answering, I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
Feeling irritated, I kicked a stray nugget of manure as I emerged from the stillness of the barn to tackle my next job. Past the sheep clustered at the feeding area, there was a short string of barbed wire fence against some trees. It was near a sharp curve in the road that ran right beside the pond, where the land fell away to a marshy area with a few cat tails. There was a break in the middle wire which needed to be repaired.
I was about to turn and get tools from the shed, when something caught my eye. Near the turn in the road was a white car. It was parked on the side nearest me, facing my direction. I could barely see it behind a couple of pine trees and a small thicket. From what I could tell, it looked like a late 90’s model sedan. The paint was rubbed off the front fender. I couldn’t see the driver, but exhaust fumes were rising in the cold air, so someone was likely inside.
Deputy Sheriff Reyes’ words repeated in my mind. Be aware of your surroundings. Be safe. There was no reason to think the car had anything to do with me, but it shouldn’t be there.
Not changing the speed of my movements, I pretended to test the strength of a post near the barn. I reached down and picked up a piece of twine from the ground, acted like I was examining it, and casually walked back into the barn. I do own several guns, but I don’t bring them to work with me. Tim owns plenty of firearms too, but this fact didn’t help right now.
I wanted to get a better look, but there wasn’t a window on the side of the barn nearest the road. It was open at both ends, however, so I went to the back and peeked around the side to find out if I could see the car from there. With the pond and terrain between the road and the barn, he – or she – wouldn’t be able to see me. I craned my neck, but the view wasn’t good enough.
I decided to fix the fence at a later time and would instead work on another project, one closer to Tim’s house. I didn’t want whoever was in that car to see me get into my vehicle, which was parked on the other side of the barn. He didn’t need to know what kind of truck I drove. Luckily, he wouldn’t be able to see it from his position.
To get to the part of the ranch near Tim’s house, I’d normally take the road, but that would take me right past that car. I needed to think about this. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but I couldn’t help it after yesterday. I passed my hand over my face to try and get the image of the girl’s blood-covered body out my head. That filthy, excrement ridden floor with the corpse on it. The horrible stench of death.
I could drive the back way, through Tim’s property on the dirt roads that connected the pastures. There was one place which might put me within view of County Road 152, but the guy in the car wouldn’t be able to see my plates. He probably wouldn’t expect to see my vehicle pass by there – he’d have to turn around and drive.
In full view of the person inside the idling car, I headed toward the gravel driveway. This was necessary in order to get around the group of mesquite trees to where my truck was parked on the other side of the barn.
“Hey there,” I heard someone call out.
It was a male voice, friendly, probably early-forties. An icy wind inched itself up my spine inside my many layers of clothing. I allowed myself to get alongside the mesquite trees and I turned to face him. There was about a hundred and fifty feet between us. I got a good look at him. He had a dark beard, a wide-brimmed, tan Stetson hat and he was wearing sunglasses on this pallid January morning. The man stood next to the white sedan with the door open in front of him, so I couldn’t see most of his right side, including his hand.
“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t inviting him up here. If he had something to say he could say it from the road.
“Are you Trent Lemend?” He maintained his friendly tone.
“Who are you?” I bit his head off. My gaze was steady, never leaving his face.
His artificial smile disappeared and he made a motion with his right arm and shoulder, as though he was drawing something out of the car. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Instinctively, I pulled myself behind the mesquite trees and crouched down. The thorny branches were only inches away from my face, but this was better than leaving myself open. If this guy was actually friendly, he’d explain himself, and if not I wasn’t stupid enough to stand out there.
Thud, thud, clang!
The calm herd of sheep exploded into an agitated swarm of bees. Frightened and disoriented, they scattered in several directions, some of the little ones falling all over themselves. What I had heard sounded like a gun with a silencer – the “clang” was probably a bullet striking the metal water trough.
I was glued to my spot, unmoving and unthinking, but that was maybe a matter of seconds. It seemed like forever. Blood pounded in my ears and my chest tightened like it would burst. I swore under my breath repeatedly, frozen between the thorns and the rocky ground. Then I sprang to my feet and made a mad dash to my truck, got inside and started the engine. I slammed it into gear and heard the tires spinning on the gravel as I pressed the accelerator.
I heard another thud coupled with a small crackling. I jerked and ducked down, feeling the pickup veer wildly to the right. I yanked my head back up and narrowly missed a fallen tree limb as the truck rolled off the path. Steering hard to the left, I got back on the dirt road and pushed the pedal down as far as it would go. I couldn’t stay consistently within the ruts as the truck jolted along the uneven road. It felt like it was coming apart, bouncing and jerking me every which way. I’d had no time to put on the seat belt. I was pushing sixty and didn’t even know where I was going, besides the path being across the field of tall dried grass and thorny plants. I had never taken this way from field to field.
I glanced in the rear
view mirror and there was the man, my attacker, getting smaller as I tore across Tim’s property. He would have to go back, get his car, and trespass onto the property to follow me. He may or may not be stupid enough to do that.
Seeing the first gate ahead, I pushed down hard on the brakes. The truck slid in the mud near the fence and I almost hit it. My hands shook as I propelled myself out of the pickup and started fumbling with the latch. It was simple to undo it and there was no lock, so I got the gate open within a few seconds. I swung it wide and started to get back into the truck, checking behind me for the man. He was still there, but I couldn’t tell which way he was facing. Looking ahead of me at the gate, I saw that because of the angle, the gate was actually swinging itself closed. Panicking, I looked behind me for the man again, but he was smaller now – he must be going to back to his car.
I got out of the truck once more and propped the gate open with a stick. Once I drove to the other side, I slammed the gate shut and secured it. I could no longer see my assailant, but that didn’t mean I was safe. I worked up to a decent speed on the dirt road as I continued to the field near Tim’s house, being more careful now because his Black Angus populated the range on either side of me. If I came to one standing on the dirt road I’d have to slow down and go around it.
I pulled out my cell to call Brenda. Maybe continuing my job on the ranch wasn’t such a good idea after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two Months Earlier
It was almost eleven o’clock. Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, I lay on the couch and numbly changed the channels. It was kind of pointless, because I didn’t really look at any of the programs. I’d see a few images, then switch to the next station with the remote – the remote which was grasped limply in apathetic fingers, attached to an arm that didn’t want to raise itself.
Over a month had gone by since Elizabeth left. She had told me she’d call in a few days, but she didn’t. Since then, I must have left twenty messages for her, each and every one unreturned. She had never sent the engagement ring back either, which was ridiculous in light of the fact that I didn’t even know what the hell had happened besides her flimsy explanation.
