Our Lady Chaos, page 16
part #5 of Bloodletter Series
“Then tell me.”
“How…” He twitched his head to the side—only once, but in an abrupt motion that spoke of confusion. “How do you know?”
She smiled and winked at him. “Oh, the list of things I know would delight you.” She uncrossed her legs and let her knees drift apart a few inches. “The things I can do,” she crooned.
Owen swallowed hard, and, after a moment of keeping his gaze on her face to show he respected her, dropped it to her legs and followed the gentle curve of her inner thigh toward her crotch. “Owen,” he breathed when he discovered she wasn’t wearing panties.
“Well, hello, Owen,” she said in a voice that made promises directed at his libido, while at the same time struggled to contain her mirth. “Are we going to be friends?”
“You…” Owen gulped. “You can’t tell anyone. I’m…” Again, he looked around like a rodent. “I’m lying low.”
She lifted her chin, and her eyes danced. “That doesn’t appear to be true, Randy. Not at all.”
His cheeks burned, and he ducked his gaze away from her. “Sorry. It’s just…”
“I remind you of someone?”
“Yes, and no.” She laughed, and for a moment, Owen thought the strands of her hair twined about each other like snakes. Her teeth faded to black and sharpened into fangs, but only for a heartbeat, then everything was back to normal. Owen shook his head, his mind rambling through time to Vietnam, to the jungle.
The woman leaned forward, and her musk almost stole his feet from under him. “Her scent lingers on you, Randy.”
“Wh-who?”
Her lips stretched in a knowing smile. “I can smell…this ‘Candy’ girl you bedded.”
Owen had the idea that she’d been about to say something else and was about to call her on it when she spread her knees a little more. His pulse slammed in his veins like a racehorse coming out of the gate. “Who are you?”
“Call me Abby,” she said with a grin and leaned closer to him, nipping his ear lobe and brushing her breasts against his chest.
The irony of her phrasing was not lost on Owen, but he simply didn’t care.
9
July 1977
Warm night air wafted across the back of Dennis Cratchkin’s neck like a mother’s loving caress. He again wore his balaclava, his black clothes, and his backpack. Crouched at the edge of Thousand Acre Wood, he stared at Mr. Dubrovnik’s house as the lights went off one by one.
Almost time, he thought. Got to be careful, got to do it just the way Red taught me. He’d skipped the evening’s fireworks show—he had his own fireworks in mind. His hand strayed to the set of lock picks the big man had given him and trained in their use. He winced at the ache in his shoulder—the latest “lesson” his father had wanted to teach him. Why couldn’t Red be my dad?
He shook his head, shaking away errant thoughts. He shouldn’t need the lock picks, but as Red always said, better to have and not use them than need and not have them. Dennis peeled the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt back and read the phosphorescent dial of his new Timex—another gift from Red. He reset the shirtsleeve, covering the watch, and raised his gaze to Dubrovnik’s home once more.
Nothing moved inside the boxy residence, and not a single light remained on. Dubrovnik lived alone with only a little yip-yip dog for company. Dennis figured he was gay or a creeper or something.
It wasn’t the first time he’d sat in that very spot, watching Dubrovnik’s house. Red insisted that he learn the man’s routine and that he prepare for all possibilities. Dennis drank Red’s wisdom in, reveled in it.
Right on cue, the bedroom lamp snapped on. Then the hall light, followed by the den, and finally, the spotlight above the deck. The slider opened, and the little yip-yip fucker came trotting down the steps to the small plot of grass. Dennis smirked, anticipating what was to come. Dubrovnik kept the same schedule every night—he went to bed and then ten minutes later got up to let the dog out. It had happened each time that Dennis had watched his house.
If he’d never met Red, he’d never have had the balls to try what he would pull off that evening. If he’d never listened to Red, he’d have been in the middle of the yard when Dubrovnik came outside…and that would’ve spelled disaster.
The yippy mutt stepped on the leg trap and screeched as its steel jaws snapped on the dog’s foreleg. Dennis’s smile grew vicious. He hated little dogs like that. Red hadn’t told him to do it, but Dennis had spent a few hours preparing the trap. A few hours’ labor had made the device special, had ensured the dog would die from the encounter.
The dog panicked—and why not? Dennis had sharpened the jaws of the trap and beefed up the spring, so that not only would it trap the mutt, it would break its front leg and cut it to the bone—maybe even amputate the limb. The dog yelped and screamed, jerking its injured limb—and the trap—to the extent of the chain Dennis had used to secure the trap to one of the posts holding up Dubrovnik’s deck.
The slider opened. “What is it, Beauty? Is there a fox?” called Dubrovnik as he raced for the stairs, except it came out sounding like: “Vat is id, Beaudy? Is der a fucks?”
Dennis sneered and wrinkled his nose. Stupid fuck should learn how to speak English.
Dennis’s former math teacher pounded down the steps, his fat belly jiggling. He was barefoot and dressed in his boxers, as Dennis knew he would be. The dog’s cries grew weaker and weaker, its frantic struggle to free itself from the trap devolved into nothing more than feeble tugs at its leg. As Dubrovnik hit the grass, the dog keeled over on its side and whimpered.
“Oh, my Beauty! What has happened?” Dubrovnik ran toward the dog and made it a few steps before setting off one of Dennis’s big bear traps. “Holy Mother of God!” the man screamed.
That’s my cue, Dennis thought. Moving silently as Red had taught him, he left the cover of the woods. He carried the instrument of Dubrovnik’s doom in his hands. It had cost him three months’ worth of chores and allowance, but it was worth it.
Dubrovnik had bent over to examine his trapped leg—putting his head in the perfect position for a killing blow from the splitting maul.
10
August 1977
“How can you even ask me that, Leif?” asked Kristy. She swung her legs off the bed and fished in the dark for her jeans.
“Oh, come on, Kristy. It’s no big deal. Haven’t you ever heard of ‘free love?’ I bet your mother has.”
“Leif!”
“I’m joking!”
“About the whole thing?”
“Yeah, it was just a joke.”
Kristy huffed but stopped feeling around on the floor for her clothes. “Not a hilarious one.”
“I guess not,” Leif said. “Let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
He sat up and rubbed her shoulders. “I’ve got something fresh.”
“New?”
“You’ll love it.”
“Better than the heroin?”
“Much better than horse. Ever heard of LSD?”
“No. What’s that?”
“People call it ‘acid.’ Trust me, you’re going to worship it. No needles. You just put a bit of jelly under your tongue and away you go.”
“Then what?”
“Then, we do whatever you choose to do.”
“Even if we don’t…”
“Whatever you want, Kristy.”
“Okay.”
“You forgive my stupid joke?”
“Okay,” she repeated.
Leif crawled out of the bed and went into his bathroom.
“Hey, Leif, where’s your dad been all this time?”
“What?”
“Where’s your dad?”
“Oh. Government shit. Don’t worry about him, he won’t come home anytime soon.”
“Oh,” she said.
Leif came back into the room holding a tiny plastic bag. “This will make you feel like the queen of the universe.”
“Good,” she said, accepting a square of gelatin under her tongue. “Now what do I do?”
“Just wait.”
Kristy shrugged and put her arms behind her head. “Nothing’s happening.”
“It is, trust me. Think of something fun—flying, floating on a cloud, whatever you want.”
“Okay…” she said, sounding anything but convinced. But twenty minutes later, she sat up and looked at Leif, wide-eyed. “Oh my God.”
“Right?”
She giggled. “This is…”
“Yeah, it is.” He came to sit next to her on the bed. “So, what do you want to do?”
She rolled her head toward him. “What do you think?”
“That’s my girl,” he said with a laugh. “Be back.”
“Where…are you…going?”
“I’ll be right back. Don’t worry about a thing, Kristy.”
“Yeah,” she said with a sigh. The acid blurred her mind, painting pretty pictures on top of reality.
The bedroom door opened and closed. Someone got into bed with her, and she slid under them. She didn’t realize it wasn’t Leif—didn’t recognize that it was a grown man—until it was over, and even then, she hardly cared.
The drug didn’t let her.
11
August 1977
Toby frowned as his mom’s new boyfriend carried box after box into their house on Mill Lane. The home wasn’t a big one, and though Randy had pretended to be nice to him when Toby’s mom was around, he’d hinted that things would change once he moved in.
“Come help, Toby,” said Candy from the front step. “There’s not much more.”
Toby didn’t move, didn’t answer her.
“Say now!” said Randy. “Show some respect for your mother, boy.”
“It’s okay, Randy. He’s getting his hormones is all.”
Randy and Candy, Toby thought with derision. How goddamn cute. I think I’ll just puke.
Randy approached him, his face hidden from Candy’s view and twisted with sullen anger. “Toby!” he snapped. “I’m speaking to you.” He dropped a hand on Toby’s shoulder and squeezed, fingertips digging into Toby’s flesh. “Don’t stand there and sneer at me when I’m talking to you.”
Toby stared up at him, unable to keep his emotions buried, and Randy squinted down at him, not bothering to hide his anger. His mom came up behind Randy and lay her hand on his arm.
“Let’s not let him spoil it, Randy. He’s just jealous that he doesn’t get me all to himself anymore.”
With a laugh for Candy’s benefit, Randy released him, but the expression he wore promised they’d return to the conversation in the future.
Toby ducked his head to the side, not wanting to show fear. For half a heartbeat, he glimpsed a woman made only of fire standing in the corner staring at him.
Staring at him and smiling.
But then the image disappeared, and the corner held only cobwebs and shadows.
“Toby, it’ll be a change for all of us. My living here,” said Randy. “But we’ll work on it. We’ll make it work out, won’t we? For your mom’s sake?”
Toby nodded because he knew she expected it of him. Something about Randy wasn’t right, but Toby was only ten, and he didn’t know what it was or how to tell his mother even if he did.
Dread settled into his belly and put down roots.
12
August 1977
Eddie’s stomach lurched when he saw Uncle Gil’s Dodge pickup parked in the handicapped space in front of Doctor Erikson’s office, and his feet slowed to a stop. Auntie Margo picked him up most of the time. He didn’t want to spend the car ride home trying to turn invisible, crammed up next to the door staring out the window. Why couldn’t Auntie Margo come?
Eddie winced as the Dodge’s horn blatted. He peeked at Uncle Gil and grimaced. Gil sat glowering at him from the driver’s seat. His mouth moved—probably calling him names. He had hesitated too long and angered Gil. Great. Now he won’t ignore me on the ride home.
His uncle waved furiously and punched the center of the steering wheel of his old truck. This time, he held his hand there, loosing a blatting, continuous claxon in the quiet afternoon.
Eddie blushed to the roots of his hair and dropped his gaze. He started himself moving again, but not fast enough for his uncle.
Gil opened his window and stuck his head out. “Get a move on, brat! You think I’ve got all day to waste? You think I don’t have things to do?”
Eddie looked at his feet as he trotted to the passenger door. He tried to open it, but it was locked. He stood there for a moment, his hand lying on the truck’s door handle, not daring to look through the window. After a moment he pulled the handle again without success.
With a sigh, Eddie raised his eyes. Gil sat cocked to the side in the driver’s seat, back resting against the door, his arm stretched over the back of the seat. He glowered at Eddie.
Eddie lifted his hand off the handle and rapped on the glass. The expression on his uncle’s face didn’t change. Gil’s gaze never left his own, and the man just sat there, staring. Eddie turned his face away and knocked again. Gil still didn’t unlock it. Sometimes he got that way—to make a point or something. Eddie knocked a third time. “Please, Uncle Gil.”
“Pwease, Uncle Gil,” he mocked.
Eddie shook his head. Great. That’s real grown-up of you.
“No, sir!” snapped Gil. “You don’t shake your head at me, brat. You understand me?”
If only Doctor Erikson could see him this way. Then he would stop trying to teach me how to talk it out, how to meet Gil halfway. As if Uncle Gil was interested in meeting anyone halfway. “Sorry, Uncle Gil.”
“Sowwy, Uncle Gil.”
He almost did it again. He had already turned his head to the side when he realized what he was doing and stopped. He tried to play it off, to pretend that he was just looking into the parking lot.
“Do you think I’m teasing? You think I didn’t mean it when I tell you not to shake your head at me?”
“No, sir.” Eddie dropped his gaze to the asphalt. “I don’t always—”
“I don’t guess I care to listen to your excuses today, rug-rat. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”
Then unlock the stupid door, jerk. Eddie tried to keep his face flat, a slab of stone.
“And whatever it is you’re thinking, you can just shove it up your tight little ass, brat.” With sharp, angry movements, Gil lunged across the cab of the truck and pulled the lock. He sat there stretching across the seat, glaring at Eddie through the window.
Eddie stared right back, keeping his face as still as if cast from bronze. I’m not stupid. I’ll never open this door with you sitting there waiting like a snake.
As if he could read Eddie’s mind, Gil cocked his head, a butcher’s grin on his lips, then moved across to the driver’s side. He settled himself in front of the steering wheel and treated Eddie to a slow wink and a smug smile.
Eddie watched him for a moment, then opened the door, but he didn’t get in right away. “Sorry, Uncle Gil, that I kept you waiting. I was messing around with Doctor Erikson. Sometimes I pretend to be a shrink, and he…” Gil’s face scrunched with impatience, and Eddie knew better than to keep going. “Anyway, I thought Auntie Margo was coming for me today, and she’s always late.”
“From the mouths of babes,” said Gil with a chuckle. “But don’t let your Auntie Margo hear you saying something such as that. She might fricassee you like a chicken. We wouldn’t want that.”
Eddie flashed him a tentative smile and grabbed the edge of the cushion to pull himself up into the cab. “No, sir. I try to avoid being fricasseed whenever I can.”
“Oh, he’s got jokes.”
Eddie slid into the passenger seat and reached for the door to draw it closed.
Quick as a snake, Gil’s fist shot across the cab and slammed into Eddie’s arm below his shoulder.
“Ow, Uncle Gil! That hurt!”
“Oh, quit your whining. It was a little tap, all in fun.” Gil turned to Eddie, the smug smile stretching across his face. “Besides, you made me wait.”
“But I said I was sorry!”
Gil shrugged and laughed. “Oh, is that all it takes? Well, I’m sorry, rug-rat.”
Eddie rubbed his arm, looking straight out the windshield and grinding his teeth.
Gil chuckled in his nasty way. “Yeah, I don’t think much of your apologies either, brat. Now close the damn door, so we can get out of here.”
Life under his uncle’s roof had become one horrendous nightmare after another.
Anger simmered in Eddie’s blood as he reached for the door and slammed it shut. He tucked his arms across his chest and stared out the passenger window.
Gil chuckled again. “Don’t think that silent treatment cuts bait with me, boy. Margo used to try that crap, and as you may have noticed, she don’t do it no more.” Gil cranked the ignition, pumping the gas pedal, and after a moment, the pickup roared to life. He backed out of the parking space and into the cloud of nauseating blue smoke.
Eddie coughed and covered his mouth and nose with his hand.
“Stinks, don’t it?” asked Gil. “Maybe if we didn’t have to spend all our money taking you to doctors, I could afford a truck that didn’t burn oil. Maybe if I didn’t have to shell out for food and clothes and every other damn thing under God’s great blue sky, I wouldn’t have to work so damn hard just to keep a ratty old pickup truck running.” Gil glanced at him as he pulled out onto the main road. “What do you think about that, brat?”
Eddie kept his mouth shut and stared out the window.
“Nothing to say?” Gil rolled down his window and spat through it. “Maybe all them people are wrong. Maybe snot-nosed kids can learn respect.”
Eddie sneered at the buildings rushing past the glass.
“That fancy mind shrinker teach you that? The respect?”
Eddie froze, except for his face. He didn’t want to be sitting there with a sneer frozen to his lips when Gil looked over to see why he was being so quiet.
“Well, shit. I guess that bastard is worth the money after all.”
Unbidden, the conversation he’d had that day with Doctor Erikson scrolled through his mind. They’d talked about the scary lady, but only a little. She hadn’t been around much in the past few weeks.
