A Tortured Soul

by L. A. Detwiler

  ‘Crystal, listen to me. I know you’re a good woman. I do,’ Sheriff Barkley says.

  I avert my eyes to the ground. This may be debatable, even if he doesn’t realize it. I scratch my arm absentmindedly, listening to Henry’s barks.

  ‘I don’t want you getting wrapped up in something, going down for something with Richard’s fingerprints all over it. I need you to cooperate with us, okay, Crystal? Can you do that?’

  I look up into the kind eyes of the sheriff, a man I hardly know who has been kinder to me than any man. I don’t deserve his kindness. I hate that at some point, probably in the near future, those kind eyes will look at me with a new realization that I’m tainted, that I’m not who he thinks I am. For now, I relish in that look. For now, I’m still Crystal Connor the innocent in his eyes. A naïve part of me wishes I could stay that way forever.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, my voice wavering.

  ‘Crystal, this is all crashing down. It’s going to fall onto Richard. Keep your hands clean. I would hate to see a sweet woman like you suffer for his behavior. And I would also hate to see you get hurt. Desperate men do desperate things. You need to be careful.’

  I nod.

  ‘I have some paperwork to do. Some leads to look into. We’re going to find Richard, and when we do, he’s going to be in a lot of trouble. I want to find him before he comes back here. I think he’s going to feel the walls closing in around him, which makes him dangerous. Please be careful, and please call me if you find anything that might be of help.’

  I blink, staring at him. In his eyes, I see a man trying to protect me. A good man. Nothing like Richard. However, as Sheriff Barkley pulls away with the paperwork and a suspicion that the chop shop theory will lead him to Richard, I stare in disbelief.

  Sometimes even the good men get it so, so wrong. And sometimes the weak aren’t the ones who need protected the most.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I stroke the dog’s grimy fur, stiff and dull, as he devours the food in his bowl. He could be so good, I think. A different family, a different piece of dirt to call his home. A different life.

  Things could be so different.

  My fingers absentmindedly grab his fur as my mind wanders, thinking about all that should be different. Thinking about all that is different. Nevertheless, there’s little solace in this. The nightmares don’t just haunt my sleep, after all.

  The crunching of gravel under tires startles me out of my demented memories and turmoil. Fear settles with the dust, but it’s dulled somehow. Terror is exhausting. My weary soul struggles to break free.

  Beneath my sore fingers, Henry’s hair spikes to attention between his shoulder blades. A low growl resonates as the car comes to a halt nearby. It takes a moment for recognition to dawn on me, the car unfamiliar—but when the lanky man gets out of the car, his face partially blocked by stubble and a ball cap, my stomach sinks. I could identify that walk, that gait anywhere. I know the way he swings the crowbar, the way his chin juts out.

  But one thing I don’t know, one fear that startles my soul awake is this: does he know the truth about what I’ve done?

  FROZEN AND STOIC, I stand up straighter, clasping my fingers to steady the trembling that’s rocking my body. The black crowbar swings cockily as he nears me.

  Despite his poised gait, he looks haggard somehow. It’s more than the stubble on his chin. It’s the torn shirt, the discernible bruising on both eyes. Cuts and scrapes mar his face in spots, and the exposed flesh on his arms is raw.

  Henry snarls, jumping wildly on the end of the rope. His enormous paws stomp into the ground, all of his hair on his back now outstretched in a display of aggression. I step aside to avoid being ensnared by the whipping rope and the dog.

  ‘Where the fuck is it?’ Cody yells, his voice edgy and inconsistent.

  ‘W-what?’ I stammer. There’s an untamable surge that gleams in his gaze at my word. He is a man undone, a man seeking something. I don’t think he cares what it costs him at this point—which is even more dangerous than the usual Connor behavior.

  ‘Don’t play with me. After all that’s happened, don’t play with me, bitch. Where is it? Where’s the goddamn money? I know it’s here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I lie, thinking of the money tucked safely away, waiting for me when I’m ready to use it—which will be soon. Very soon. It has to be soon.

  I step backward, hands still up, as Cody inches forward. Henry snaps at him. Cody huffs and sneers at the dog, then at me.

  ‘I’ve just spent days and days answering for Richard and the missing money. Death threats, torture, you name it because that bastard didn’t follow the plan. He didn’t deliver what he was supposed to, trying to skim money off the top. And now he’s missing, and I’m the one dealing with his mess. I’m not playing anymore. Give me the damn money. I know you know where it is.’

  ‘Cody, please. I don’t know what Richard’s done, but I’m not a part of it. I don’t know anything about money. I don’t. But Sheriff Barkley was here, and he searched the garage.’

  ‘You think I’m going to believe you, you lying slut? You’re covering for him, aren’t you? This whole innocent act is the perfect cover. He’s too much of a pussy to face to the truth, to deal with the mess he’s made of this whole thing. Stealing a few cars here and there isn’t a big deal. But he’s messed with the wrong people now, and he’s taken it to the big leagues. He fucked over our supplier, big time. Kept a bigger cut than he should’ve, and now they’re after me. Where is he? Where are you fucking hiding him?’

  Cody lunges closer, but Henry goes insane on his rope, causing Cody to second-guess his moves.

  ‘He’s not here. I’ve told you. I haven’t seen him. I’m actually very worried.’ I sob now, praying he’ll buy into my words and leave. I can’t deal with this complication, not when I’m so close to being finished, to getting away with it all.

  Cody snarls, his face looking similar to the growling dog beside me. ‘Where is he, Crystal? Huh? Is he in the house fucking hiding? Has he been there this whole time? Is this asshole stowed away letting me clean up his mess, just like when we were young?’

  Cody turns, heading toward the house. I rush after him, my legs moving faster. My need to stop him is stronger than my desire for self-preservation, than my ability to reason.

  ‘No,’ I shriek, but he turns on me. The rage within him explodes, and he tackles me to the ground. He is on me, my back slamming against the damp earth in a familiarly painful way. The crowbar against my throat in a familial show of strength, he presses the air out of my chest, the scream out of my mouth.

  He is the complementary branch of Richard’s family tree, for sure. I choke and struggle and gasp, the well-known flirt with death once more a part of me. This time, though, there are no stars or fireflies to welcome me. And Gideon is far away now. This time, my soul is also unclean. So unclean.

  But I’m getting ready to say goodbye, nonetheless.

  Will he get what he deserves, in its entirety?

  Will he be found?

  Will he return?

  What will become of Richard when I’m gone?

  The questions rattle in my dying brain when suddenly, the snapping sound echoes through the forest and the train comes barreling at me.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The screams aren’t my own.

  They are of a guttural, raspy variety that do not come from my lips. When the shock disintegrates and my breathing comes in waves, this is the concept that rattles me the most: the screams aren’t mine. My lungs ache, burning with the need for oxygen.

  I’m breathing.

  I’m not screaming.

  I’m okay.

  Tears fall as I heave in air over and over, choking on dust and oxygen as the shrieks and cries reverberate. They sound out over the vicious growls, over the scuffling and the pleading whimpers.

  I scurry backward now, watching in horror as a new power is asserted. The broken rope still loose
ly attached to his collar, Henry surrounds his target, lunging at his prey. It’s an easy catch for him, the scrawny man no competition for the muscular, powerful machine of a dog. Blood pools and spills as the ripping of flesh sounds. Specks of the red liquid fly and scatter haphazardly, some landing in Henry’s grimy fur. I watch in awe as my mastiff makes quick work of Cody. I watch until the screams subside. I watch as Henry devours flesh and meat, a hunger I’ve helped create for him. I don’t know how long I sit there, stunned, watching nonetheless. I can’t stop watching.

  But eventually, after a long while, I rise up. There is cleaning to be done, I think with a start, stretching my legs and wiping my hands on my apron. There is so much cleaning to be done, and I’m an expert at it.

  I AM STILL WEAKENED from the scuffle and trauma. Cody is small, scrawny compared to Richard. Nonetheless, dragging his mangled corpse is no small task. Nor will cleaning the blood be easy. If he comes now, I’m finished.

  Breathe. Don’t think about it, I command myself. Just keep focused on the task at hand.

  Henry is gone now, the bloodied dog having taken off for the forest at the sight of freedom. I don’t know if he’ll come back. I hope he doesn’t. I’m happy for him. I wish him a new life where he is his own master—because that, I’ve come to realize, is what makes a life truly filled with luck: freedom. Freedom is the true master. Not money or power or domination. Not fancy cars or big houses or beauty. It’s the freedom to go as you wish, to choose your own life.

  Freedom is the real god to be worshipped, praised, and kept holy in this world. How has it taken me so long to see it? It could be too late now for me, but perhaps Henry can flourish on his own.

  The sight of Cody doesn’t sicken me, another sign that so much has changed. I’m stronger now. In fact, I’m intrigued. I see the marks and mauled flesh, and I take it in. I imprint it in my mind, wanting to remember just how his skin flaps and the look on Cody’s deadened face. I smile as his limp feet clink up the porch steps, dragging behind him as I grab him under the armpits and yank him to the screen door. It’s hard work, and sweat pours from my forehead, but it feels good to be strong. The blood trail on the porch and on the kitchen floor angers me as I drag his body. So messy. This will take a lot of meticulous scrubbing, and I’m so tired. Do I have enough bleach left? I’ll really have to put my muscle into it, and I don’t want to, not for Cody. I need to keep Gideon safe and clean. I don’t have time to tend to this nuisance. Still, adrenaline pumping through my veins, I’m energized. I ignore my throbbing arms and pull him onward.

  When I reach the door in the kitchen’s corner, my fingers reverently touch the brass knob. It’s cold to the touch unlike in my nightmare. I yank it open, reveling in how it screeches on its unoiled hinge. Richard really should’ve oiled that. I take one more look at Cody, smirking at the fear-inducing grimace and the bloodied wounds. He is a messy sight, indeed.

  Then, dragging him closer, I give him a swift kick down the basement stairs, rolling him and shoving him. His body flails in a bewildered heap until finally he is at the bottom of the basement stairs. I follow behind him. Sliding him and yanking him, I pull him to the back corner. Sweat pours down from the effort. I’m soaked through with blood and sweat. But there are no tears. I don’t have tears to cry, not for him. It’s worth the effort, though, I realize once I’ve succeeded.

  After all, I want his body to make an impact. I want his death to be appreciated. Most of all, I want him to know that when the mighty fall, it’s in a big, ugly way.

  And oh, how they’ve fallen. Smirking, I turn from the gory sight to wipe my hands of it. I creep back upstairs to face the next burdensome task. But I’m good at cleaning. So good. Richard, Mama, Daddy—they taught me well. So well.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It isn’t until much later that the reality of what’s happened sinks in. The blood cleaned, the red trails scoured away, I sit in the bed where this swirling spiral of decay began. Only then does my mind traipse backward, to other bloody sights, to other horrifying images.

  I think back to that day when everything changed, that day not so long ago. It was supposed to be a hopeful day, a day to rectify what remained of my life. Instead, it had been the day that incited the beginning of the maniacal end.

  All good things come to an end—but what about the bad? The depraved? Do things of malice also come to a finale, or do they just continue on their merry way, torturing the downtrodden, the damned? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything at all. Maybe I never did.

  I rock myself in the dusky room, the sunlight filtering through the blinds as dusk settles on the horizon. It’s too early for bed, but I’m exhausted. The day’s been a grueling one, and I need rest. The splatters of blood on my T-shirt beg for me to change, but I’m too tired. How do you even get blood out of fabric? How will I clean up this mess?

  My eyes are heavy with exhaustion, the turmoil of the past week plaguing me. Has it only been a week? Only seven days since the Crystal Connor I once knew transformed into a being I hardly recognize? Has it only been a week since the sins of my soul burned in anguish, filling me with a regret I can never reconcile for?

  The Bible sits on the nightstand in its familiar spot, opened to the last page I read. The bookmark rests against the splayed pages, a visual reminder of all I’ve messed up. It may as well be a sign from God—I’m doomed.

  I hit my head against the wall, terrified to fall asleep. I can’t fall asleep. I know what’s coming if I give in, and I’m not strong enough tonight to let that happen.

  Tears fall. I rock back and forth like I have so many times. If I close my eyes, I can feel the weight of him in my arms, see those chubby cheeks, and remember what it was like to clutch him to my chest. I wish I could hold him once more.

  And then, I hear it. My eyes bolt open, my heart surging with disbelief. It can’t be. There’s no way. But yes, as I silence my breathing and will my pounding heart to be quiet, I’m sure I hear it. Faintly, in the distance, I hear the sounds of muffled cries, of screams, of him needing me.

  I take a deep breath, maybe the first one in ages. The cries I’ve craved resonate through the house like a welcome melody. It isn’t too late. He is crying. My heart leaps to hear the sound I’d so desperately wanted to hear all this time. I rest my head against the wall, feeling like maybe all will be okay. I sit, listening to the cries, the sound calming my soul instead of grating on my nerves. I’m so happy to hear his shrieks.

  After a few moments, I’m not tired anymore. I stand from the bed, clutching at the locket around my neck, the familiar piece of soft hair inside. I don’t have to open it to know it’s there. I can feel him close to me. It soothes me to know he’s close, even after all that’s transpired. I cross the floor and peer out the window, studying the tree line I’ve seen so many times. At first, I couldn’t look out there. The memories were too real, the scene too fresh. But things are different now. I’m different. In many ways, I feel at peace.

  Everything is just as it should be. Everyone is right where they should be. And he is safe. I’ve ensured that. I’ve done all I can for him. We’re all fulfilling our purpose. There was a time not long ago when I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to live out mine, to see mine through. But now, I feel like maybe I just didn’t understand what he had in store for me. Maybe I was just blinding myself to the truth I couldn’t bear to accept. I had a different purpose, a different role to live all along. I hate that it took this tragedy to understand that, but I guess the Lord really does work in mysterious ways.

  I glance out into the fading light, perusing the tree line. The darkness of the forest is macabre in a way that’s familiar but eerily unsettling. I’m okay with it, though. I’ve come to learn that life is sometimes meant to be uncomfortable.

  But just as the cries are quieting and the silence of the house pervades again, I catch a glimpse of something that sends icy, sheer terror through my heart. The peace that reverberated within is now shattered, an
icy chill spreading like a virus in my veins.

  ‘No. No. No,’ I plead, shaking my head. My fingers clench into fists, trembling.

  I put a hand on the window, unfurling my fingers with great effort. My trembling digits feel the grimy window. I should really be embarrassed about the thick layer of dirt. How long it’s been since I’ve washed the window. Despite my fear, I can’t help but wince at the grime, the scratchy filth irritating my fingertips. It’s like I believe touching the chilled, defiled glass will snap me back to reality. It will save me from what I saw. Certainly it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

  Suddenly, like a sign, it appears again, right in the tree line, an angry, vicious sight that sends terror pulsing through every single one of my limbs.

  I bite my lip so hard I’m pretty sure it’s bleeding. I devote my energy to steadying my breathing as I try to look away, but I can’t. My gaze is glued on the spectacularly petrifying sight before me. I know what that means. I know that he’s almost here.

  And I know that I am, in fact, doomed in every way imaginable.

  For out in the distance, it stands, confident and cocky in its glare. I know for sure the glowing eyes are staring at me.

  The goat. It’s back, standing watch, right in the spot where dear Gideon was. How is it back? It feels like a lifetime ago when I saw it. Where did it go, and why is it back now? I must be imagining it. Tears fall, and I shake my head. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to make it disappear. Please, God, make it disappear.

  ‘No,’ I exclaim. ‘No, please no.’

  But it’s too late. It’s too late for me. And maybe it’s too late for Gideon. Maybe I’ve doomed us both. Maybe I’m not mother material after all—and maybe I’m not the good daughter I once thought I was. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all gone too far.

  I cry myself to sleep, knowing peaceful dreams won’t come.