by Britney King
We had a bit of a tussle, the two of us. Once an understanding was reached and he was well tasered, I made sure to tie him up tight. Snug as a bug in a rug, as my mother used to say. After wrapping him up all cocoon-like, I stuffed several old socks in his mouth and wound duct tape around and around his head. Then I took him, swaddled sweetly in his cocoon, and I got a long rope. I attached the rope to the cocoon, which I hooked onto a makeshift trailer hitch I’d jimmy-rigged onto my sports car.
It wasn’t ideal, but I knew it would suffice.
Once he was adequately secured, I drove him up and down the country road his kid likes to wander. I varied the speed, slow at first and then fast, so I could be sure he felt it.
I wondered what he’d look like when all was said and done. Would his body even be recognizable?
The breeze blew through my hair as I rode ever closer into the future with the top down. It was a beautiful night, warm and windy. Bright stars littered the sky, while his body parts littered the ground.
As I stared at the center line and thought of all the things I had yet to do in the world, all the lives left to save, I thought about how irresponsible he was and how someday his son would thank me for what I’d done, even though he’d never know it was me. You can do a lot of good in this world, if you don’t care who gets the credit. I wondered if the boy and I would ever be in the same place, like serendipity, if our paths would ever cross again. I pictured myself in Paris, maybe London, or some small, middle of nowhere town. Maybe I’d go out for a stroll, and we’d pass on the street. I’d look at him and nod hello. Such a simple gesture, and yet, it would mean so much more than either of us will ever know.
Chapter Twenty-Five
First it was the headline in the paper about the hit and run. Then things started to hit close to home. Too close to home. They’d found Jon Monroe’s truck out off County Road 249. I hadn’t known that was his name, had I? It’s funny how you can memorize a person’s face, but not their name. Innumerable details there are to sort out in life.
The story goes that Jon Monroe went out one night for a drink and never came home. It’s a familiar tale, and one that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for him.
Had it not been for the truck, no one would have thought much of it. I’ve known a bender a time or two myself. I certainly wouldn’t have questioned his absence.
If it hadn’t been for all of the blood splattered along the pavement, the police might not have even taken a second look. Men like Monroe don’t often make headlines for turning up missing. His photo will not draw the kind of attention that causes command centers to be erected or volunteers to rally. Not many folks around here will be eager to form search parties or to spend their time putting up flyers. Men like Jon Monroe are rarely missed.
But aside from the blood, it was the rest of the story that drew people’s attention. The lack of a body. Limbs and other body parts had been strewn about, spanning a range of more than a mile and a half. A hand here, and a foot there, the rest of him nowhere to be found. It makes for a rather peculiar situation, the kind that gets people talking. Had the rest of his body been trapped and drug under a vehicle, and if so, where had it ended up?
I didn’t think much of it, other than what would become of the boy and his mother. Not even when I tuned into the news and saw the clip about the hit-and-run in Austin did it occur to me that something was off. I hadn’t considered that the two crimes might be related. I’m a writer. I’m proficient at seeing connections, and also in making them up where there aren’t any, which means I have to be careful. Plus, I had other things on my mind.
Still, I told myself I’d look at the tracker, just to see. Liam had come in late a few nights before, hadn’t he? And there was the dent in his car.
He certainly had motive to kill the boy’s father, considering that Monroe had peppered his car with bullet holes. I’d seen the look in his eyes, the contained but eerie manner in which he’d restrained himself afterward.
Although it wasn’t that which told me for sure he was involved. It wasn’t until I saw the girl on TV pleading with the public for someone to come forward in her fiancé’s death that I understood what I was up against. It wasn’t until she showed up at my doorstep, devastated, looking for Liam, that I knew with certainty; this situation is much more than I bargained for, and I am in deep, deep shit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I have my attorney contact the sheriff’s office about the missing kid from the school. He has told me what I already know: unless they can prove that I’m somehow involved with his disappearance, at most all they can do is continue to harass me with questions, all of which should be directed at him. He reminded me that teenagers run away all the time. The conversation makes me think of Jenny and ruins the entire day.
Even though I may have an idea about who might be at fault, what I don’t have is proof or a motive, so I leave that part out of the discussion. What reason would Liam have to kidnap a kid, just because he made an off-colored comment? Particularly one that wasn’t even directed at him.
If I really wanted to set the world spinning, I could mention Bobby Simmons, the guy who was run down in Austin, and the fact that Liam may have had good reason to kill both Monroe and his lover’s fiancé. But what good would it do me?
I have a novel to finish, and seeing that Liam is doing more than half the work, I need him. And, also, I really don’t have concrete evidence.
What I do have is time. If I finish the book and then tell the authorities what I know about Liam, no doubt a lot of press will come from it. I could certainly use the publicity. Even better if I can find a way to spin it into my novel. It is a mystery, after all. Why would a seemingly normal young man from a well-to-do family, with a burgeoning career, and his whole life ahead of him, murder two—three?—people? At best, this situation appearing at my doorstep turns out to be a red herring. At worst, a case study into the mind of a monster. There’s only one question. Am I talented enough to write it in without Liam knowing I’m on to him?
I grew up surrounded by death. My father was a homicide detective. His father was a mortician. I’ve long thought of the ways in which our fathers’ careers have impacted the work we do in the world. My father’s father ran a funeral home. My father grew up seeing grief on a daily basis, and I believe that is why he went into detective work. As for me, I grew up with a man married to his job, which was not abnormal for the times. He was gone a lot, and even when he was home, he often had that absent look in his eyes, like he was somewhere else entirely.
Sometimes I’d catch him looking at my mother or my sisters with such sadness written across his face that I had to look away. I imagined that he saw the faces of victims in them, and I imagine that fueled him more. I don’t know that he looked at me that way; I hardly recall him looking at me at all. From an early age, he made it clear that I was to be the man of the house. I was in charge of caring for my mother and sisters while he was out doing important work in the world, or as he put it, keeping the wolves at bay.
Murder rarely occurs during business hours; it is usually between 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. So, on those days, his watch officially started when he arrived at the crime scene. He often didn’t make it home until long after we were asleep. Sometimes I’d wake in the middle of the night and find him seated at the kitchen table, poring over court orders or reviewing search warrants.
Back then I don’t think I appreciated how hard he worked; in fact, I know I didn’t. It’s difficult to understand what it’s like to be a man with the weight of the world—and a family—on your shoulders until you are one and you have one. My father very rarely spoke of his work. He didn’t share information about the cases he worked, and he didn’t celebrate when he solved a case. He didn’t buy into the cliché that he was a voice for the dead. He was a serious man with a serious work ethic. On occasion, I would see his files lying around and take a peek. Maybe it was the furtive nature of his job that made me fascinated with the dead and with
writing about them. Maybe I just wanted to be closer to the man who lived down the hall but was, in many respects, a stranger. Maybe it’s why I started making things up—to fill in the parts I never knew.
Any armchair psychologist worth their salt would suggest that I write mysteries because of my father’s profession. If they dug a little deeper, they’d see that I don’t just write mystery. I write easy mystery.
With my first novel, I was surprised. Truthfully, I didn’t think it was all that good. I surely didn’t think it would sell. It was actually Eve who packaged it up and mailed it to several agents. It was Eve who bought me my first good typewriter. She believed in me long before anyone else did, maybe even before I believed in myself. Without her, I would have moved on to something else, a profession my father found more respectable. He was embarrassed at having a son who made things up for a living. In fact, he was horrified that I spent my hours seated behind a typewriter conjuring the kind of stories he spent his life trying to stop.
Later, as my backlist grew and I became acquainted with my audience, it made sense why my work has been successful, even if it can at times be considered predictable. People like to feel smart. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as being right, proving that righteousness can be bottled and sold.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My eyes flutter open hesitantly. In the in-between of sleep and consciousness, I hear shuffling, something or someone stirring around me. Was it a part of my dream? Daylight hasn’t yet broken, but there’s just enough light peeking through the curtains that as my eyes adjust, I can see it wasn’t a dream. A figure is standing over me. Instantly, I feel the pull, and my hands reach for my neck, toward the electrical cord that is wrapped around it. Digging into my skin, I try to get my fingers underneath the cord, but it’s too tight. I can’t.
“You’re going to send me back to that place, I know it,” she says calmly.
I try to call out to her, to say her name, but it comes out as a grunt. I try again and again to say something, to say anything, but speaking is impossible. Flinging my body from side to side like a fish out of water, I try to get a foothold.
“You want to kill me, George.”
Again, I try to speak, to say her name, but words don’t come, only a horrible gurgling sound. “Plea—”
“I’m sorry about this. But I can’t let you send me back there. You promised.”
Writhing back and forth, back and forth, I finally get enough momentum to swing my feet around, hanging them off the side of the bed. But then dizziness hits and I realize I am seconds away from passing out. It’s funny how it isn’t until words are taken from you that you realize how many you have left to say. I ask myself how she got out of that room. Had I forgotten to lock the door? Had she planned this?
Finally, I manage to push myself to an upright position. From there, I use my body weight to fling myself forward, putting a little distance between the two of us, just enough to get some slack on the cord. Eve is small, but when she gets like this, she might as well be ten feet tall and bulletproof. “What the fuck?” I ask when I can finally choke out words.
“I hate you!” she screams. “You’re going to kill me. I know you are.”
In the darkness I see her let go of the cord. She picks something up, and that’s the last thing I see.
The first thing I notice is the dull ache in my back. The second is the hard surface I’m lying on. It takes me a second to register what’s happened. I ask myself what I know: My wife attacked me. Eve. Where is she? What has she done? Everything hurts. But I am on the outside of the pain—a detached observer. There’s no fear, no other emotion, just my body instinctively willing me to get up. Rolling onto my side takes herculean effort. Somehow I manage.
I could easily and effortlessly give in to the desire to allow myself to sink back to sleep, although the bright morning light that filters in through the curtains making a zig-zag pattern next to me on the floor seems to beckon me toward the day. The warmth of the light sharpens my recollections, for a moment dulling the painful stiffness in my body.
I can’t seem to erase the scene from my mind. My wife standing over me with a baseball bat, bringing it down, again and again.
I’m lying in the half-light, mentally wringing my hands, imagining all the things I could have done differently to avoid my present predicament, when the aroma hits me strong. It’s not just the scent of blood, which is particularly pungent, but of something more pleasing. Something that makes my stomach clench and release several times over. Bacon.
It takes far longer than I think it will, but eventually I am able to army crawl my way over to the bed and pull myself to a kneeling position. From there I am able to hoist myself halfway onto the bed. My eyes are nearly fused shut, whether merely swollen or caked with blood, or both, I can’t yet tell.
Blood is matted in my hair. There’s a thick layer, dry and hardened, like hairspray, glued to my scalp. A six inch gash runs along the top of my skull. To the tips of my fingers, it feels wide enough to require staples.
With monumental effort, I make my way up to a standing position. My foot seizes up, nearly causing my knees to buckle. It’s still sore from the knife wound, back when I thought our last incident was as bad as it could get. Although it’s healing, it’s tender. But at least I can hobble around halfway decently. Assessing my injuries with minimal visibility, I can feel that my left wrist is swollen about twice its normal size and—fuck, is that a bone poking out?
Instinct tells me to find Eve; logic tells me to fix my vision first. It takes an age to limp from the bed to the en suite bathroom, and another age still to wet a washcloth and carefully wipe the dried blood from my eyes. I peel it out of my eyelashes like dried paint.
The reflection staring back at me in the mirror is unrecognizable. My face is swollen, my nose clearly broken, and there’s a bright red ring around my neck where the cord dug into my flesh. Although I suppose it could be worse. I could be dead.
Downstairs there’s music playing, and over it, I hear a fair amount of rustling around in the kitchen. I’m terrified of what I will find, but whatever it is, at least I have confirmation that Eve is alive. The rest I will deal with once I get her locked in her room.
The spread is really something, I’ll give her that. “George!” she says, glancing up, a distant look in her eyes. “Good, you’re up.”
She motions around the kitchen as a slow smile spreads across her face. “I’ve made breakfast. You must be starving.”
I wish there were a manual, something to tell me how I’m supposed to handle this situation. Being with her, like this, is akin to a confrontation with a wild animal. “Eve,” I say softly. “We have to talk.”
Her whole body tenses. She reaches for a knife. My eyes flit toward the cottage. It’s possible that this is going to go further south and that I am going to need Liam. Perhaps it’s time for him to see what my wife is really like. Sure, I could call the police, but the odds of that turning out well are not in Eve’s favor. In her current state, she’s unpredictable, and the last thing I need is her getting shot.
What I need is to get her medicated. Then I can assess how to go about getting her the help she needs. “Let’s sit.” I point to the table. “You’re right, I am hungry.”
She looks at me like I’m a stranger standing in her kitchen. “What happened to your face?”
“You tell me.”
Her lips part and she starts to speak before she stops herself. “How should I know?”
Pulling out a chair, I slowly ease myself down into it. Eve places a plate in front of me. I consider how I’m going to get a sedative in her.
She takes the seat across from me and folds her hands, laying them on the table. Then she cocks her head. “You’re bleeding, George.”
I touch the tips of my fingers to my temple and pull them away, swiping the blood onto my napkin. “Yes.”
She shakes her head and then stares down at her plate. “What a mess.”
Picking through my eggs with my fork, I shuffle food around my plate. I’m not hungry. My head spins, making things come in and out of focus. The smell alone causes my stomach to turn. It threatens to empty at any second. The nausea hits in waves, but the pain is consistent. I need to think. I need to buy myself some time. I need to talk her into submission. In this condition, I won’t be able to subdue her if she flies off the handle.
Eve jars me when she reaches out and slaps my good hand. “What are you doing?” she hisses. “We have to say our prayers first.”
I drop the fork. In as many years as I’ve known my wife, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her say grace. Although, I suppose this is as good a time as any.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
How close to fire can you get without getting burned? That has become the question of my life. Liam’s girl is back to stay, or so it appears, and Eve has been properly sedated. After breakfast she said she was exhausted and wanted to take a nap. I suppose this is to be expected when you’ve stayed up all night trying to kill your husband.
Once she was out cold, I shook her awake. Not fully awake, just so that she was coherent enough to lift her head while I held a glass of water to her lips. I placed a Haloperidol tab on her tongue and told her to swallow, aware that she’d be too eager to return to sleep to fight me on it.
Afterward, I went back to the kitchen and taped up my wrist. It’s probably not broken—hopefully it’s just a bad sprain—but in any case, the good news is, bones heal. I took several painkillers and then rinsed the dishes. I tidied up a bit, and then I watched the footage from last night, needing to determine how Eve had gotten out. Had I really forgotten to lock the door? Or had she suddenly become Houdini?
