Justice For Belle

by Didi Oviatt

  “I told you to stay home! Stay away from this place, and you just wouldn’t listen!”

  “Mac,” I’m finally able to whisper. “What did you do?”

  His head rolls back in laughter. The sound of it bellows from him like a crazed maniac. It’s loud and rolls from the pit of his stomach.

  “What did I do?” he asks and laughs again. “What did I do!” he draws out and emphasizes the “I” each time.

  “Mac,” Lorraine's voice is intentionally calm and low. “Calling your therapist isn’t a bad idea. Look, if this is about your stepdad then we ca . . .”

  “Stop,” he cuts her off before she can finish. “Stop right there!”

  Mac bends at the waste, closing the gap between their faces. “Not another damn word. You understand?”

  Lorraine nods her head wildly with her mouth shut, more tears streaming down her face.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” I beg.

  Mac turns his head to look at me in one swift motion. The rest of his body still bent toward her. His breath quickens, and I can tell in an instant that he’s ready to unleash whatever pent up wrath he’s kept inside. He pulls himself to stand tall, tilts his head to one side, and places his free hand in his pocket.

  His voice is lowered, calm even.

  “She’s right you know,” he tells me. “My stepdad was a real piece of work.”

  “What are you talking about?” I sob.

  “My mother could really pick ‘em.”

  My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. So many things flash through my head it’s hard to straighten them out or to focus on one thought at a time. The image of Mac shaking the life from an unknown man comes back again, yet it’s real. It seems more prominent, more like a memory than a vision.

  I close my eyes tightly and shake my head back and forth. I see it again, yet the man isn’t unknown at all; it’s Tim. We’re young, teens, and we’re there in that house. The three of us in Belle’s room. She’s already dead. The bed is soaked in her blood.

  The thought is then replaced by another. My body shakes, and my teeth clench. I grind them back and forth, trying to stop the repressed memories as they flood back. I don’t know if I was sleepwalking at the time or if I went into the kind of shock that blocks out the events for all these years. Am I really that psychotic? Am I as twisted as the character in my first book? I don’t know what to think or what to believe anymore.

  The entire event flashes across my mind, one clip at a time like a projector, reminding me of what really happened that night. I don’t remember walking there or sneaking in the window. That part of the night is still lost in the foggy, mix-up of my mind. The reel starts with the flip of a light behind me, just like I remembered while Mac was in my apartment last night.

  I knew the light was turned on and I didn’t care. I feel it now as if I’m actually there. My body is thawing from the chloroform, and it feels just the same. As if I’m beside myself, excited, cheering me on. I watch in memory as I lower the pipe on Belle’s skull. Over and over I bash the life from her. Tim climbs in the window. He’s too late, but he makes a run for me anyway. After ripping the pipe from my hands, he shakes my shoulders and yells in my face. I stare back at him blankly with a satisfied smirk.

  “Ahnia!” Clap. “You in there?” Mac shouts.

  I open my eyes, again blurred with tears.

  “For a second, I thought I’d lost you.”

  He teases me with a voice every bit as dark as before.

  “You know,” he says while grabbing up the camera by the base of its tripod in order to place it closer to me. “The fact that we’ve actually kept our secret this long is impressive.”

  I grit my teeth and lie through a tight lip, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes you do,” he says. “My stepdad finally died. Liver failure of all things. Go figure. I’ve been planning this for years, and now that he isn’t here to threaten me with my mom’s life, I finally get to follow through.”

  “You have to stop this,” I beg.

  “No, Ahnia! You have to stop this!” He shouts again, his voice echoing through the room. “It’s time to confess, and you know exactly what I’m talking about!”

  “I don’t! I swear to God, I don’t!”

  “That monster compared me to you all these years. I hope you know that. He’d say, ‘You’re a worthless little bitch, Mackenzie. You’ll never have as big ‘a balls as that girl who killed your sister.’”

  Mac disappears behind me, and I hold my breath. He comes back with a fold-up chair. A foot in front of me and right next to the camera, he slams the chair down and plops himself into it. Lorraine continues to sob at our side but doesn’t say a word. He's straddling the chair backward with his elbows pressed against the top of its backrest, the bat dangling from his hands. I look over at Lorraine, begging with my eyes for help. She looks away, turning her head in the opposite direction.

  “What did you do to her?” I whisper.

  “Oh, God! So now it’s me with the problem?”

  “She’s bleeding.”

  “She fell up the damn stairs. I had to tie her up so she wouldn’t turn me in. The cops can’t come! Not yet!”

  “What do you mean, yet?”

  “Don’t tell me you actually thought we were going to rob something?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to avoid his burning gaze. The darkness of my lids provides no comfort, for as soon as they’re shut the memory reel continues. It’s real, and I’m watching from the outside in, through my head.

  As Tim tries unsuccessfully to shake me awake, a very tall man with extremely wide shoulders, a five-o-clock shadow, and an evil grin stumbles into Belle’s room. He’s the one who flipped on the light. With a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and the collar of teenage Mac’s shirt in the other, he struggles to toss Mac toward us.

  In a scratchy voice he slurs, “See boy, I told you you’d wanna get outta bed for this.”

  I hadn’t seen Mac or either of his brothers since we were small enough to compare our boogers, learning to tie our own shoes. This teenage Mac looks back and forth between me, Tim, and his dead sister. She’s still twitching on her bed. He goes right for Tim, grabbing him by the throat and starts shaking him wildly. I stand there and watch. Not moving, not helping my own brother in the slightest. The twisted grin on my sleepy face is still fully intact.

  The tall man chuckles. “That’s enough, boy.”

  He grabs Mac again by the collar and rips him away from Tim. Tim falls to the floor gasping and pawing at his throat. After he catches his breath, he pulls himself back to his feet. Tim doesn’t even look at the tall man or at Mac as he kicks and swings trying to escape the man’s grasp.

  “Wake her up,” the man commands, “and get the fuck out of here before their real dad wakes up. I’ll keep this little rat quiet. But if either of you talk . . . your whole family will pay for what she did.”

  I gasp and snap my eyes back open wide. The aged Mac is staring at me, waiting . . . But, for what?

  “Just say it, Ahnia. Tell the camera what you did.”

  Sobs roll through me, rocking my shoulders uncontrollably.

  “Don’t make me use this, Ahnia.” He waves the bat in the air.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper the cold-blooded lie through clenched teeth.

  “That’s enough!”

  Mac again stands and disappears behind me. This time, whatever he’s pulling across the floor is bigger. The metal dragging over concrete is loud and slow moving. Mac grunts, struggling with the heavy load. I thrash my arms in their restraints the second they come into view. I scream and beg, but it does no good. Mac doesn't even look my way, as he pulls Tim across the floor.

  “It’s only fair, Ahnia.”

  He positions the unresponsive Tim on the opposite side of the room. They’re hiding behind the camera’s view. It’s pointed at me, and only me with one purpose. Mac w
ants a confession, and he’ll clearly go to any length to get it.

  “You can stop this, you know. All you have to do is say it.”

  “No!” I beg. “Please don’t hurt him! Tim, wake up! Please, wake up!”

  Mac laughs.

  “Really?” he chuckles, “That’s what you’re going with right now is, ‘wake up’?”

  Mac turns, swinging the top half of his entire body with the bat in his hands. It comes down on Tim’s knee. The crunch of Tim’s kneecap rings through the air, paralyzing the parts of me that have only started to regain feeling. I don’t know who screams louder, myself of Lorraine.

  “Say it, Ahnia!” Mac shouts over our shrill screams. “Say her name, or the next one will be his head! You took my sister, and I’ll take your brother! All you have to do is confess!”

  I shake my head back and forth violently.

  “No, please!” I sob.

  Mac lifts the bat into the air, ready for his next blow.

  “Stop!” I shout. “Belle! Her name was Belle!”

  Epilogue

  Buzzzz . . .

  The digital clock above the bars on my cell reads three-o-seven. It’s been four years, three months, two weeks and five days since my conviction. Murder in the first degree. Because I was a juvenile at the time of the killing and received ongoing mental evaluations, the sentence included those nine magical words ‘with the possibility of parole based on good behavior.’

  Today’s the day. I’ve packed what few belongings I have in a small cardboard box provided by the guards. The buzzer rings every time someone on our block has a door open. I stand before the bars, ready, excited. I tap my foot impatiently.

  “Well, Ahnia,” Says the guard outside my door, with a chubby yet strong hand planted firmly on her wide hip. “Congratulations. Follow me, please. Your brother, Dr. Airington, is waiting out front.”

  I comply and follow her with my head down. Lessons learned tell me not to speak back or acknowledge what she’s said to me. We pass several hallways, unlocking doors buzz before opening.

  I grip my box tightly, thinking of the photos and journals inside of it. Tim and Dad have kept me updated as often as possible, bringing me copies of every family photo I ever requested. They’re mostly of Mom. The box also holds several comp journals. I’ve been busy behind bars and am clinging to the box now like my life depends on it. I guess in a way my future does.

  The air outside is crisp, refreshing. The smile on Tim’s face confirms that today is real, it’s happening, I’m free! The limp in his steps reminds me of exactly why I’ve been stuck here for so long. As Tim wraps his arms around me tightly in a comforting hug, I’m glad that I asked Dad not to come here today. We’re meeting him at the eatery in an hour.

  I can’t wait to sink my teeth into some real food. Lucy will be there too. I haven’t seen her since I was arrested, but have been pleased to hear all the fond things Tim tells me about their relationship when he comes to visit.

  Tim walks me out and opens the door to his jeep. I’m in awe that he still drives this old gem. I’m tempted to mention it but am still rendered mute from the shock of this entire day. I climb in and watch him limp around to the driver’s side. He heaves himself in with his one good leg, and lifts the other with some effort.

  “Well . . .” he says, as soon as the door is shut.

  Tim stares at me as if I know what he’s hinting around about with a single word.

  “Well what?” I croak. “I mean . . . thanks, thanks for coming.”

  Tears stick the back of my eyes, trying to fight their way out.

  “No, no, no.” He holds a palm into the air, stopping me before I get carried away. “We have an entire hour’s drive. Just you and me. I want you to take a deep breath and read.”

  “Are you serious?” I question, taken aback by the request. “Already? I mean, don’t you want to chat? Maybe talk about Lucy, I’d love to hear abou—”

  “Nope.” He stops me again. “We have the rest of our lives for that. This can’t wait. I want to hear everything you have time to read before you have the time to back out of the entire book now that you’re free.”

  “But, Tim . . .”

  He starts the engine. “Read it!”

  I sigh, my surrender very clearly painted on my face. I pull the notebooks from my box and flip open the notebook marked with the number one and begin.

  “Justice for Belle . . . Chapter one . . .”

  About the Author

  Didi Oviatt is an intuitive soul. She’s a wife and mother first, with one son and one daughter. Her thirst to write was developed at an early age, and she never looked back. After digging down deep and getting in touch with her literary self, she's writing mystery/thrillers like Search For Maylee, Aggravated Momentum, Sketch, and New Age Lamians. Along with a six-piece short story collection called the Time Wasters. She’s also collaborated with Kim Knight in an ongoing interactive short story anthology The Suspenseful Collection. When Didi doesn’t have her nose buried in a book, she can found enjoying a laid back outdoorsy life. Time spent sleeping under the stars, hiking, fishing, and ATVing the back roads of beautiful mountain trails, sun-bathing in the desert heat, along with watching the relaxing dance of a campfire plays an important part of her day-to-day lifestyle.

  Didi Oviatt would also like to invite you to enjoy a sample of her cold case mystery, SEARCH FOR MAYLEE

  Search for Maylee Sample

  Autumn drew in a lungful of California air. Although it was thick, it was somehow refreshing. She looked to her side at the sun glistening off small choppy waves on the oceanfront. It sparkled in bright flashes across the horizon. She was really going to miss this stunning morning view. A thin lilac tank-top dampened with sweat in the center of her back. Her feet were growing heavy, but she pushed herself and quickened her stride. Autumn had been running along the beach every day, sometimes a few times a day, for the past three years. She found that running helped to clear her mind, and tiring her body helped her sleep at night.

  Every day during this run the thought of Maylee's disappearance raced through Autumn's mind on a loop. Every intricate detail was recalled, in order, exactly as it happened. She remembered what Maylee had eaten for breakfast, and dropping her off at school that morning. Even the conversation they had haunts her.

  "Don't you want some eggs?" Maylee chirped in her perky morning voice.

  "Nah, I'll just grab a coffee."

  "Whatever Aunt Autumn, you're going to sneak one of those disgusting greasy processed breakfast muffins after you drop me off, aren't you?"

  Accusing eyes pierced Autumn’s embarrassed face, forcing her to blush. Strange, how such a young woman could find so much fault over an innocent guilty pleasure no bigger than a thin slice of cheese with sausage.

  These memories continuously float in and out of Autumn’s mind, circling her like a consuming shadow, just waiting for the right moment to swallow her whole. After reliving the worst day of her life, Autumn would clear her mind, steady her breath, and convince herself to focus on the present. It felt like an impossible task to stop living in the past. Maylee was Autumn's niece, and she was seventeen years old when she was taken. Maylee was a high school senior with two weeks left until her graduation. She had her entire life ahead of her.

  Now, three years later, Autumn was convinced that if she could just remember any tiny detail, something she may have skipped over, the police would be forced to pry Maylee’s case back open. Autumn was more of a mother to Maylee than her junkie sister could ever dream of being—even on a sober day.

  It had been nearly an hour since today's run commenced. Time seemed to escape Autumn as the worn out sneakers laced to her feet moved further down the beach. Her legs were starting to tingle and burn. They weakened and felt like noodles under her wearying body. The intake of air burned her chest, leaving her throat to feel like a charred tree—still intact and alive, but the edges burnt to a crisp. She could feel the color of her face darken as
freshly oxygenated blood sped through her veins.

  Over the course of the last few days, she had pushed herself even further than her usual run. She would be leaving her beautiful home in Northern California and moving to a small cramped one bedroom apartment right in the center of Denver Colorado. Every detail of her life would change once again, and it was terrifying.

  Autumn fell into a deep depression when Maylee went missing, and she became obsessed with the case. The only time she would leave the house was to go to the grocery store or police station. Her life’s purpose became nothing more than to pester Detective Chance, or just Chance, as everyone called him. His full name and title was Detective Chance Rupert Lizhalia III. Clearly, the comfort of being referred to so casually by his first name was developed very early on in his career. The details and progress of Maylee's case were poked and prodded at by Autumn daily. It was a repetitive process until about five months after Maylee had disappeared. At that point, Chance put Maylee's folder on an overstuffed shelf to collect dust.

  “We have done everything we can,” he told Autumn on that bizarrely hot fall afternoon as he slowly wiped the sweat from his full, perfectly squared hairline.

  “So you're going to throw her away? Just like that, you’re done?” Autumn demanded, tears welling.

  “Every police station in the country has Maylee’s picture.” Chance reminded her. “If anyone finds her or comes across anything that we can link to the case, then I assure you, Autumn, you’ll be the first to know.”

  The short conversation had rendered Autumn mute. She stood frozen in shock as he told her to move on with her life. Chance apologized for the loss in such a way that it was clear—Maylee would never be found. Then he brushed past her in the hallway of an over-lit police station and went about his day as if nothing had changed.