by W Winters
I know he’s here but he hasn’t shown himself yet. I say aloud to no one, “When I was a kid, I hated the dark.”
The playground is quiet tonight. With its broken swing that creaks as a gust of wind blows, and the full moon’s faint blue light that shines down and covers every inch of the fallen snow, it’s the perfect setting for Marcus. The kind of setting that’s eerily familiar. The place where you don’t go and you walk as quick as you can to get far away.
The backyard playground of the abandoned school is where no one goes unless they’re up to no good. Like I am tonight.
“Most kids do,” a voice answers from somewhere to my right, under the old, ten-foot rusty slide. I can just barely make out the brown broken bits through the veil of snow.
“I figured you’d be there. In the dark, just watching.” I make my way to where he is, but stop short. I stay by the swing set, close enough to hear, but not bothering to look at him.
I’ll play by his rules. He has what I want, Jenny Parks. We both know that I know.
I can hear the faint laugh carry in the night, but he makes no other comment and instead there’s nothing but the bitter cold between us.
“What about now?” he asks me and I resist the urge to turn my head to face where he is. Instead I stare at the graffiti on the back of the brick building.
“What about now?” I question.
“Are you still afraid of the dark?”
His question makes me smirk. “I never said afraid… I said I hated it.”
“You didn’t have to say you were afraid, Jase. Every child is afraid of the dark.”
A moment passes and I stalk forward to lean against the metal bar of the jungle gym.
“You wanted something?” I ask him, knowing that my back is to him and knowing he could sneak up on me if he wanted. I’ll risk it.
“You wanted something,” he answers me as if it’s a correction. His voice a bit louder this time, followed by the sound of footsteps. “Don’t turn around just yet.”
“Understood,” I respond quickly, knowing in my gut I’m walking away from this. He wants me to know something. And I want to know what it is.
I can hear him stop just a few feet behind me and I stay where I am although the need to turn rings in my blood. I’ve never crossed Marcus and from what I know, he’s never crossed me. But he isn’t on our side either, and that makes me question where his intentions lie.
“You’re looking for information and I came with… a gift.”
My pulse quickens as I hear more movement behind me. Gripping the bar tighter until my knuckles have turned white, I ignore every need to turn, making my muscles tense.
“A gift?” I press him for more information.
“Yes,” is all he gives me.
“Is it Jenny Parks?” I dare to ask, giving up information, but in the hopes of cooperation.
“Jenny is fine.”
A beat passes and the muscles in my arms coil, my grip too tight, the adrenaline in my blood racing to get somewhere, or to do something. To simply react.
It’s a puzzle with Marcus, attempting to ask the right questions, because he has all the answers.
“What are you doing with her?”
“I’m helping her.” His voice is faint this time, as if he’s farther away now. The crunch of the snow beneath his feet makes me realize he’s pacing. Maybe considering telling me something.
“You know I want answers… I want her sister to have a life with her. She wants her back.” There’s only the soft call of a midnight wind that whistles in the lack of his answer. “What do you want me to know?” I ask him, acknowledging to both of us that’s all he’ll tell me anyway.
“Did you have a nice conversation with Mr. Stevens?”
An exhale of frustration slips through my lips at the change in subject. I answer him, “It went well.”
“What did he tell you?” he asks.
“He said you were building an army,” I say and raise my voice to make sure he can hear me. He does the same and takes steps to come closer, but still stops far enough behind me that I can’t see his shadow yet against the pure white snow.
“Building one?” The tone of his voice lingers in the air, and his answer leaves a chill to run down my spine. “Did you think I did all of this on my own? There’s always someone looking for salvation, for redemption, for something to believe in.”
“You’re their savior?”
“I’m no savior and the things they do… it’s no redemption.”
“So you’re using them?” I ask him and rein in the simmering anger as Jenny’s face from the pictures in Bethany’s house flickers in front of me. Back when things were different.
“I’m giving them what they want,” he answers.
“And then?” I ask him. “What are you going to do with Jenny when she’s done doing your bidding and you have no use for her?”
Silence.
My head falls forward, heavy as I struggle with the need to force an answer from the man I used to fear. I focus on staying still. On not facing him so I can gather more information. I need an answer. I need to know where Jenny is. I have to know if she’ll ever come home.
“Did you know wolves used to live here? Back in the day, so to speak.”
My eyes open slowly and I stare straight ahead as my shoulders tighten. “You love your stories. Don’t you?” My voice is menacing, not hiding my disappointment and outrage.
“Oh I could tell you a story, but the truth will hurt the most.”
My teeth grind together, my patience wearing thinner and thinner as all the pictures I’ve seen of Jenny from when she was a girl hugging her sister, to only a few years ago when she was in school, play in my mind.
“They’d run in packs and terrorize the people.” He paces again, I can hear him doing it and a part of me wants to turn around; I want to look him in the eyes and see the man who plays with fire like he has. The only reason I don’t is because he has the upper hand. He has Jenny. He has the answers.
“They attacked people, but farms mostly, leaving the families little food for themselves…” He pauses and lets out a soft sound, nearly a chuckle although I’m not certain it’s humorous; it sounds sickening.
“They ruled and there was not much to be done. Much like you and your brothers,” he says and the S hisses in the air. “They don’t run wild here anymore though, because hunters found a way. Well, there were two ways.” I remain silent, biding my time, struggling to stay patient with him.
“The first, I’m not a fan of,” he says and steps closer to me, but still I don’t react. “They’d find the female mates and put them in cages for the males to see. When the males would inevitably come to find their mates, they’d try to release them, to no avail. And then they’d wait there for the men to come, with their tails tucked under them, begging in whimpers for their mates to be freed.” Every hair stands on end as he tells his tale. All I can think about is Bethany. “I’ve been told you didn’t even need a gun to kill them when they did this. When they came to get their mates, they were so willing to do anything and accept anything in order to free their mates, you could turn your gun around and beat them to death with the end of a rifle.”
My skin pricks with the imagery that floods my mind. The fog of my breath in front of my face paints the picture of a wolf, bloodied and dead and next to it a caged mate, with bullet wounds ending her life.
“Are you implying something, Marcus?” I dare to ask him, feeling the anger rising. “If you’re threatening-”
“Bethany is safe,” he answers before I can finish and the simple confirmation is more relief than I thought imaginable, given my current position.
“The other way though… I… I find it more fitting,” Marcus says, and continues his story. “The farmers would dip a knife into bloodied water. Wolves love the taste of blood. They knew that, so they’d tempt them. They’d dip it and freeze it over and over. Practically making a popsicle, made just for wolves.”
The swing blows and creaks again as he tells me, “They’d leave the knife for the wolves, and the wild animals would lick and lick, enjoying their treat and numbing their own tongues with the ice. They’d continuing licking, even after they’d sliced their own tongues. After all, they love the taste of blood and they couldn’t feel it.”
“The wolves would bleed out?” I surmise.
“They would. They would lick the knives even after the ice was long melted, and bleed themselves to death.”
“Now, if only I’d heard that at bedtime, maybe I would have had better dreams,” I lay the flat joke out for him, downplaying the threatening tone he chooses, and keeping my voice casual.
“Humor is your preference, isn’t it?”
I don’t bother answering.
“What’s the point to your story, Marcus?” I ask him bluntly.
“I brought you a gift,” he answers. “I brought you a bloody knife.”
My jaw clenches as I wait for more from him.
“Trust me, you’re going to want this one, Jase. I think you’ve been waiting for it for a long, long time.”
“What is my bloody knife?” I ask him, gritting my teeth and praying it’s not the body of Jenny Parks. That’s all I can think right now. Please, don’t let it be her.
“Inside the trunk of the lone car across the street is your package. I sent you a video, you should watch. He’s had a high dose of your sweets. I’d think it’ll wear off by tomorrow… Good luck, Jase.”
Bethany
“This is completely and totally shady,” I mutter under my breath and then look over my shoulder to make sure no one saw me walk into the alley behind the drugstore. It’s nearly 3:00 a.m. so the store is closed, as is everything else around here. “Could you freak me out any more?”
Meet me behind Calla Pharmacy. I have something for you.
That’s the text Laura sent. And the messages afterward were a series of me asking why the fuck we were meeting there and her not answering my question, but insisting that I come.
“You have no idea the shit I was imagining on the way down here,” I scold her although it’s only concern that binds to the statement. The buzz from earlier has worn off completely, as if the current situation isn’t sobering enough.
“Sorry.” Laura’s hushed voice is barely heard as she grips my arm and pulls me farther down the alley to where she parked her car.
“We can do shady shit at my house,” I say, biting out the words.
“What if it’s bugged or something?”
All I can hear is the wind as her words sink in.
Concern is etched in her expression as she looks back at me and then nearly opens her trunk, but she stops too soon and places both of her palms on the slick metal.
The streetlight from nearby barely illuminates us.
“It’s dark and cold and you’re freaking me out,” I finally speak and ignore the way it hurts just to breathe in air this cold. I lift my scarf up to cover my nose before shoving my hands in my pockets and asking, “What the hell are we doing here?”
Every second it seems scarier back here. It’s a vacant small lot, no longer asphalt as the grass has grown through patches of it. It’s all cracked and ruined. Even though it’s abandoned, there are still ambient noises. The small sounds are what spike my unease.
Like the cat that jumped onto the dumpster and the cars that speed by every so often out front. I should have told Jase. I should have messaged him, but I didn’t.
“Why did we have to come down here? And why couldn’t I tell Jase?”
“We just had to, okay.” Laura’s fear is barely concealed by irritation. “And he doesn’t need to know about this. I did something,” she quickly adds before I can get in another word. Her soft blue eyes are wide with worry and she looks like she can barely breathe. Her gaze turns back to the trunk and chills run down my arms.
“There better not be a body in there,” I tell her more to lighten the mood, but also out of the sheer fear that she fucking killed someone. At this point, I don’t know what to predict next.
“Jesus,” she hisses. “I didn’t kill anyone.” She searches behind me and then over her shoulders like someone might be watching. “I’m not one of the crazies in your nut hut.”
There’s a small voice in the back of my mind telling me that Seth is somewhere. Seth is watching and Jase will know everything she says and does right now. But only if Jase knew I left, only if Seth is watching me nonstop. The thought is comforting for a split second, and then I regret not telling Jase.
“You promise you didn’t say anything?” she asks and I nod.
I remind myself, this is Laura, Laura the friend I met in college, the girl who I ran to when I got dumped and needed to consume my weight in ice cream and fall asleep in front of romcoms. My Laura. My best, and really, my only friend.
There isn’t a damn thing she could do that would be problematic. With that thought lingering, I get to the bottom of it. “Why are we here?”
“Look… first…” It’s a heavy sigh that leaves her when she stares at me. The look she’s giving me is begging for forgiveness and acceptance.
“You’re freaking me out,” I admit and grip her hands in mine. They’re cold, just like the air, like my lungs, like everything back here on the cold winter night. “Just tell me; I won’t be mad.”
Laura’s never done anything like this and I don’t know what to expect. I always know what she’s going to do and say. She’s the voice of reason more times than not. But this… “I have no idea what you did, but it’s okay. Whatever you have to tell me or show me, it’s okay.” I hope my words comfort her like they do me. Even if they are only words.
“You have to accept it,” she tells me and her voice is sharp. The worry is gone in her cadence, replaced by strength.
“Accept what?” The question I ask goes unanswered. Instead a breeze blows, forcing Laura’s blonde hair to blow in front of her face although she makes no move to stop it. Bits of soft snow fall between us and all she does is stare at me and then make me promise.
“Promise you’ll take it. Promise you’ll never mention it again.” She inhales too quickly and finally moves, shifting on her feet to look behind me before adding, “Promise it leaves with you and you forget where you got it.”
My stomach coils and I nearly back away from her, but she grips my hand instead. “What the fuck is it, Laura?”
“Promise,” she demands.
“Whatever it is, I promise.” The pit in my stomach grows heavier as the trunk creaks open, darkness flooding it and hiding what’s inside at first glance.
It’s only when she pulls it out and shoves it into my chest that I see it’s a black duffle bag.
The trunk shuts and the thud of it closing is all I can hear as I hold the bag. It can’t be more than fifteen pounds, but until the hood is shut I have to hold it with both hands and then rest it against the flat back of the car.
“Don’t open it. Just take it.”
I look Laura dead in the eyes as I answer her, “You’ve lost your fucking mind if you think I’m not looking at what’s in here.”
“Don’t. In case someone’s watching.”
“What is it, Laura?” I ask her again, my voice even but somehow sounding eerie in the bitter air.
“Your way out of the debt,” is all she tells me until I grip her wrist, forcing her to look at me instead of walking back to her driver’s seat like she intended.
She glances at my hand on her wrist, and then back up to me before turning to face me toe to toe.
I don’t expect the words she says next. The casualness of her statement, yet how matter of fact it is.
“If you want to be with him, this is the world you live in. There’s a risk of people going after you. If you don’t… I think you’re still in that world, regardless. It has a way of not letting go.”
A silent shrill scream rings in my ears from the need to run, the need to do something. It co
mes from anxiety, from the need to fight or flee. I choose fight. I was born to fight.
She finishes, “But at least this gets rid of the debt.”
It takes a second and then another for me to comprehend what she’s saying.
“The debt? I owe him-”
“Three hundred grand.” She nods as she speaks. “And now you have it to pay off.”
“No fucking way.” I’m adamant as I shove the duffle bag into her chest but she doesn’t take it, she doesn’t reach out for it and the bag falls to the icy cracked ground. “Where did you get it?” I hiss the question, with a wild fear brewing inside of me. “Take it back,” I beg her before she even answers.
Her baby blue eyes search mine for a moment and I’m left with disbelief and confusion.
I tell her with a furious terror taking over, “You don’t have that kind of money.”
“I didn’t and then I did,” she answers simply.
Emotions well in my throat. “Take it back, Laura. However you got it, give it back.”
“No,” she says first and then adds, “I can’t anyway.”
“No, Laura, fuck! No.” I have to cover my face as it heats. “Please tell me-”
“I’m more than fine,” she cuts me off. “I wanted to do something for a long time. An offer I had and wasn’t sure if I wanted to take or not.”
It’s only the ease of her confession that settles me slightly.
“You can always go back.”
“No,” she answers me, “I can’t and I don’t want to. I’m not taking the bag back either and I have to go, I have the night shift and you promised me. You promised you’d take the bag.”
“What did you do?”
“I can’t tell you,” she murmurs. There’s no fear or desperation when she speaks to me and my head spins with the denial that this is even happening.
“You can, you can tell me anything.” I feel crazed as I reach out to her, stepping forward as she steps back and kicking the bag at my feet.
“I can’t tell you,” she says, stressing every word and pulling herself away from my grasp. “That bag is yours. And I have to go.”
She leaves me there with the duffle bag at my feet, the snow clinging to my hair and the cold of the night settling in to wrap its arms around me, the same way I wrap my hand around the strap to the duffle bag.
