by Scott Pratt
I reached down and picked up the pistol, the sirens outside growing louder with each passing second. As I tried to decide what I should do next, several images again began flashing through my head: the Becks’ bullet-riddled bodies; Norman Brockwell and his wife, brutally murdered; Sarah’s battered face; Lilly on the ground, fighting for her life; Boyer’s body on the holding cell floor; Fraley’s death stare; and Caroline lying alone, dying from a blood infection. Again I heard the old man’s warning: “If the curse is real, there’s only one way to break it. One of you has to die… . One of you has to die… . One of you has to die… .”
Fraley’s car keys were on the bedside table. I knew a shotgun would be in either the cab or the trunk. I grabbed the keys and hurried out the door, intending to find the shotgun and take off in my truck. The sirens were louder, almost there. The place would soon be filled with uniformed officers and paramedics. If I stuck around I’d be held there for the rest of the night.
Instead of opening the trunk, I jumped in and started Fraley’s car.
Wednesday, November 12
The heavy winds were ushering in a thunderstorm, and as I drove the cruiser across town a blinding bolt of lightning tore through the blackened sky, followed by a clap of thunder that reminded me of an artillery burst. I was conscious on some level that what I was doing was wrong, but after seeing Fraley’s body and the horrific way in which he died, I wasn’t thinking rationally. About halfway to Natasha’s house, I punched Leon Bates’s number into my cell.
“Natasha killed Fraley,” I said when Bates answered in a sleepy voice. “I’m going after her.”
“What? Killed Fraley? When?”
“A few minutes ago. I just left his house. She stabbed him to death.”
“What do you mean, you’re going after her?” Bates asked.
“It’s time somebody put a stop to this.”
“Now, you wait just one damned tick there, ol’ buddy. You can’t go tearing after a suspect with murder in your heart.”
“She’s responsible for at least nine deaths,” I said. “She’s terrorized me and my family. She’s threatened me; she even left a threatening message in my house. I’m going, Leon. You can’t stop me.”
“And what are those beautiful children of yours going to do if she kills you? Especially if Caroline doesn’t make it?”
I hung up on him as soon as he mentioned Caroline’s name. It was the thought of saving her life that was driving me. If I could kill Natasha, maybe it would break the curse, and maybe Caroline would be all right. I tried not to think about what he’d said about my children. I willed myself to think only about what Natasha had done to Caroline and Lilly and Fraley and the Becks and the Brockwells. By the time I got to Natasha’s neighborhood, I was in a blind rage.
I parked Fraley’s car a couple of blocks from Natasha’s and rifled through the trunk. It turned out to be a bonanza—a twelve-gauge pump shotgun, fully loaded with seven shells, and a flashlight. I stuck Fraley’s pistol in my pants pocket and walked quickly up the road in a driving rain. I jogged towards an old Chevy that was parked in the driveway and felt the hood. It was warm.
I crouched beside the car for a few moments, watching the house and listening. Nothing was moving; the house and yard were dark except for occasional flashes of lightning. I became aware of my clothing. I was still wearing the same clothes I’d worn to work the preceding morning. I’d left my coat at the hospital, and my shirt was soaked and sticking to me. A cold chill ran through me, and I decided to move.
I walked slowly up on the front porch and turned the doorknob. It was unlocked, but it squeaked slightly as I opened it. I crouched again and moved just inside the door. Another flash of lightning exploded above me, briefly illuminating an image of Marie Davis sitting in her recliner. I pushed the switch on the flashlight and panned the kitchen and den. Marie, wearing her flowered robe, was staring straight at me, her face as pale as white paper behind the tinted glasses. I moved towards her slowly, still in a crouch.
“Where is she?” I whispered.
She looked away for a brief second and I heard air rushing through her nostrils. When she turned back, she raised her right hand, her index finger pointing towards the back of the house. She mouthed the word outside.
I moved back out through the front door, went down the steps, and put my back against the front of the house. From there, I started sliding along the wall until I got to the corner. I peeked around the side, looking for any sign of Natasha or a dog, seeing nothing. I slid along the side wall until I got to the corner. I raised the flashlight and scanned the backyard. Still nothing. Just as I started to move, I thought I sensed movement behind me. I was conscious of another lightning strike and searing pain, and then I slipped into darkness.
I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I woke up I was flat on my back with rain pelting down on me, stinging my face. I opened my eyes and first tried to lift my head, but the pain in my temples was so intense when I moved that I nearly threw up. I closed my eyes and lay still, thoroughly confused until I suddenly remembered where I was. Hunting for Natasha. Trying to save my wife. But something had happened. Either I’d been struck by lightning, or someone had hit me.
I tried to sit up, but realized that my arms and legs were restrained. I turned my head from side to side and could see that my wrists were tied to something that had been driven into the ground. Tent stakes? I pulled against them with what little strength I had, but neither of them moved. I lifted my head and could see that my legs were both bound in the same fashion. As I laid my head back down on the cold, soaked earth, I could feel something warm running down the back of my neck, and I knew it must be blood.
The kitten. Natasha and her kitten.
I began to tug at the stakes again, ignoring the pain that was surging down my spine and radiating through my entire body.
C’mon, goddammit! C’mon!
I tried desperately to push the stakes back and pull them towards me. I thought if I could loosen them enough in the ground, I’d be able to pull them up.
As I strained against the ropes, I heard a snarl a few feet away. I turned my head just as a bolt of lightning flashed and could make out a figure standing beneath a small tree, wearing a hood. In its hand was a thick leash, and attached to the leash was a Doberman. A sickening chill overtook me. It was Natasha. My heart began to pound even harder in my chest. She wrapped the leash around the trunk of the tree a couple of times, tied it, took a few steps, and stood directly above me. I knew if I didn’t find a way to free myself soon, I’d be dead.
“I like you in this position,” she said in a calm voice. “If I had more time, I’d build a cross and do it right.”
She knelt down, her knees almost straddling my head. I watched as she reached with her right hand to the ground to retrieve something. She picked up a hammer, the one she must have used to drive the stakes into the ground. Slowly, she reached into a coat pocket and pulled out an ice pick. She began waving the pick back and forth in front of my eyes.
“Have you come to arrest me?” she said. “Or have you come to kill me? I think you’re here to kill me. And what does that say about you, Mr. Dillard? It says you’re no different than me. You came to punish me for violating your Christian laws, just like I punish those who deserve it. Or did you come to sacrifice yourself so others might live? Do you have a Jesus complex, Mr. Dillard? Do you?”
She bent close to the ground and put her lips next to my ear.
“I wish I could crucify you,” she whispered, “but since I can’t nail you to the ground, I’ll have to settle for this.”
She moved quickly to her right, still on her knees. I saw her hold the ice pick against my right forearm, felt the stab of the steel point. She raised the hammer and brought it down hard. I moaned as the pick drove through my flesh. Oh, my God, how’s it going to feel when she drives it into my throat, my chest, my eye? The pain was unspeakable, but I refused to scream or beg for mercy. The rage I�
��d felt before I was knocked out had returned. I hated her. I hated her and everything she represented. I put an image of blowing a hole through her with the shotgun in my mind, and kept straining against the ropes.
She pulled the ice pick out, sending another shock of pain through me, then straddled me and began whispering in my ear again.
“The smell of your blood will drive Zeus wild,” she said. “As soon as I finish, I’m going to let him taste you. He hates you anyway. Do you know why? Because I told him you killed his sister. How’s your daughter, anyway?”
She scooted to the left and drove the pick through my other forearm. A wave of nausea came over me, and I turned my head to the side in case I threw up. I didn’t want to drown in my own vomit, but the thought crossed my mind that it might be better than what Natasha had in store for me. She crawled around to my right foot, and I braced again for the pain. But as she lifted the hammer, I heard another female voice.
“Stop hurting him, Natasha.”
Was I hallucinating? Maybe, but when I looked at Natasha, there was a look of surprise, maybe bewilderment, on her face.
“You!” Natasha hissed as she slowly stood. “What are you doing here?”
I heard a squishing sound, footsteps, and looked back and to my left. Alisha was standing there, and in her hands she held Fraley’s shotgun. The dog continued to snarl and bark. I could see it pulling against the leash. Please, God, don’t let the leash break. Please.
“Leave him alone, Natasha. Let him go.”
“Or what? Are you going to shoot me?” Natasha started walking slowly towards her sister as she spoke. “You, the good daughter, the gentle soul, the Wiccan princess? You’ve never hurt anything in your life. You don’t have the strength.”
“Stop, Natasha, or I’ll pull the trigger.”
“Go ahead!” Natasha yelled. “You can’t hurt me anyway. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know that I’m the daughter of Satan?”
She began to speak in the same language I’d heard at the courthouse, continuing to move towards Alisha. As she spoke, she quickened her step. Suddenly, she raised the ice pick and lunged at Alisha.
The shotgun belched fire and smoke and thunder, and Natasha was lifted off the ground. I heard a thud as she landed, and I strained to see if she was moving. Alisha dropped the shotgun and began working on the ropes holding my arms. As soon as they were free, I tried to help her loosen the ropes on my ankles, but my fingers wouldn’t work. Blood was pouring out of the wounds in my forearms, and when I tried to stand, pain and dizziness forced me back to my knees. I looked over at Natasha—she was faceup a few feet away. Her shirt was stained with dark blood.
She bleeds. I guess she’s human after all.
I crawled over to the shotgun and picked it up. The dog had suddenly grown quiet. I didn’t want to kill it, but if it broke free and came after us, I knew I wouldn’t have a choice. Alisha hooked her hand beneath my arm and helped me get to my feet. I noticed headlights coming down the road towards the driveway. I turned back and stood looking down at Natasha. My forearms felt like they were on fire, and my head felt as if it were about to explode with every beat of my heart. With Alisha still holding my arm for support, and using the shotgun as a crutch, I knelt back down next to Natasha and felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
At last, the wicked witch was dead.
“Help me get to the side of the house,” I said to Alisha as she pulled me up from my knees. “I think someone’s coming.”
The storm had lost some of its ferocity, but rain continued to fall. We got to the corner of the house just as the car pulled into the driveway. As it moved closer, I recognized the Crown Victoria. It was Leon Bates.
I turned to Alisha and gently touched her cheek. Her long hair was plastered to the sides of her face, rainwater dripping from her chin.
“You have to go now,” I said. “You have to get out of here. I don’t want him to see you.”
“What? What do you mean?” she said. She seemed to be in a state of semi-shock.
“Go in the back door, get those wet clothes off, and stay inside until they come to question you. Tell them you don’t know what happened. Tell them you were too scared to look outside.”
“But why?” she said. “I … I …”
I was thinking about Lee Mooney and Freeley Sells and their desire to see someone suffer publicly for crimes that had been committed in their district. I was thinking about political agendas and scapegoats. I was thinking about how corrupt the system could be.
“Please, Alisha, I know how things work. I’m afraid of what they might do to you. They might arrest you. They might charge you with murder. I’m not going to let it happen.”
The interior light in Bates’s car came on, and I heard the door slam.
“Go!” I said. “Please, just go inside and don’t ever say a word to anyone.”
She looked at me desperately, her face a mosaic of fear, confusion, and sadness. I saw her make the decision, and she disappeared around the corner of the house. I heard the door to the back porch creak, and I knew she was safe.
Without Alisha, I was unable to stand for more than a few seconds, and I dropped once again to my knees. The beam of a flashlight was making its way towards me slowly.
“Here!” I yelled, immediately regretting it because of the pain. The beam was on me instantly, and then Leon Bates was over me, water pouring off of the plastic cover of his cowboy hat.
“Damn, brother, are you all right?” Bates said.
“No.”
“What the hell happened here? Where is she?”
I pointed over my shoulder with my thumb. “Over there. She’s dead. Watch out for the dog.”
Bates walked immediately to the spot where Natasha lay. I watched as he surveyed the scene: the body, the tent stakes and the ropes, the shotgun, the ice pick. The Doberman didn’t make a sound. I saw Bates pick up a shovel and examine it closely with the flashlight. He looked towards the back of the house and disappeared from sight for a minute. When he returned, he stood over me again.
“You’re bleeding like a stuck hog, Dillard,” he said. “We’d best get an ambulance out here, pronto.”
He hoisted me to my feet and we made our way to his car. As he opened the back door on the passenger side, he told me to wait for a minute.
“I’ve got some plastic in the trunk,” he said. “Let me cover the seat. I don’t want you bleeding all over my damned vehicle.”
Once I was in the backseat, Bates got on the radio. I felt myself sliding towards unconsciousness. Time passed, I don’t know how much, and Bates was leaning over me again, checking my wounds.
“You gotta stay awake now,” he said. “Don’t go slipping into no coma on me.”
I was conscious of him kneeling next to me, dabbing the wounds on my arms with something. I opened my eyes and saw a first-aid kit sitting on the ground.
“Talk to me, Dillard,” he said.
I opened my eyes and tried to focus, but I felt as though the life were ebbing out of me like an ocean tide.
“Who killed her?” Bates said.
“I did,” I whispered.
“I don’t reckon that’s true, brother. Don’t take no genius to figure out what happened over there. Somebody got staked out on the ground, and judging by the blood on the ice pick and the shovel and the wounds to your head and your arms, I’m guessing it was you. I don’t reckon you was in much shape to defend yourself after she whacked you in the head with that shovel and tied you up, so somebody had to help you, and I reckon that somebody is the person who left those wet footprints on the back porch when she went in the house.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as much as I could without passing out from the pain. “No, Leon, please don’t. Please!”
“Why?” Bates said. “Why are you doing this?”
“She saved my life,” I whispered. “She had to kill her own sister. She’s already paid enough. Please don’t throw her to the wol
ves. Just let her be.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his mouth slightly agape. Even in the state I was in, I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as he pondered his next move. His eyes suddenly flew open wide, as though he’d experienced some kind of revelation.
“You with me? You with me, Dillard?” he said as he shook my shoulder. “You understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded as best as I could.
“All right, here’s the deal. You found Fraley’s body; you knew it had to be Natasha that killed him, so you came over here to check it out and you called me on your way. Once you got here, she ambushed you in the backyard. She staked you out and drove that ice pick through your arms. Just when she was about to finish you off, I showed up. I tried to get her to back off, but she came at me and I killed her. That makes a hell of a lot more sense, and it makes me a goddamned hero.”
“It was Fraley’s shotgun,” I whispered.
“Hell, son, I got one, too. I’ll just run up there and get Fraley’s, wipe it down real good, and put it back in his car. Where was it?”
“Trunk.”
“Okay. Now, do we have the story straight? They’ll be here any minute.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“No need to thank me. You owe me now, Dillard.” He popped a cold pack and set it on the back of my head.
“Yes, sir, you owe me. And believe me, one day I’ll collect.”
Six months later … Friday, May 15
I’m sitting in the vacant jury room just down the hallway from the courtroom in Jonesborough. Jim Beaumont, his blue eyes gleaming like a South Pacific island lagoon, is brushing a tear from his cheek as he recounts the story.
