A Death On The Wolf, page 24
Rather than back tracking to check that out, I decided to go on up to the cabin. I slowly made my way up the freshly cut path. As I got closer, I could see the door on the cabin wasn’t really closed; it was pushed to, but not closed all the way. My heart was racing so fast it gave me the jitters and I had to stop and mentally force myself to calm down. I had never been so scared in my life. I still had about twenty feet to go to the cabin, and it was only by sheer will power that I was able to overcome my fear enough to make my legs carry me that remaining distance.
After what seemed an eternity, I was finally standing in front of the cabin door. Try as I might, I could hear nothing coming from inside because of the wind whipping through the trees. It was strong enough that smaller dead branches were falling all around the cabin, and the sound of those breaking was loud enough to be heard over the wind. With my hand trembling, I reached out and pushed the door open. What I saw will be seared into my memory forever.
Peter Bong didn’t hear me; it was only the added light entering the cabin from my opening the door that let him know I was there behind him. When he leaned up off of Frankie and turned to look at me, it was as if Satan himself were staring a hole right through me. There was pure evil in his eyes. I gasped as I stumbled backwards, away from the door. In what seemed like slow motion, Peter Bong got to his feet and pulled his black jeans up in one seamless move. When I saw the glint of that Bowie knife on his belt, I knew I had to run but my legs felt like two lead pipes. That all changed when I saw his hand go for the hilt. I turned and ran as hard as I could.
I made it out onto the beach just as Peter Bong tackled me and knocked me to the sand right by his motorcycle. I rolled onto my back and kicked to try to scramble away, but he had latched onto my belt with his left hand and the harder I pushed away from him, the closer he pulled himself to me until, finally, he was on top of me. The wind was blowing the sand in our eyes and, even with the gusts, I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he put his face close to mine and said something. To this day I cannot recall what it was. It may have been so horrific that my young mind simply would not process the words and allow them into my memory. Out of the corner of my left eye I saw the blade of that big knife come up to my face and I knew I was about to die. Once I had accepted that fact, I quit struggling to get away. There was a small pocket knife in my right pocket, but with Peter Bong right on top of me there was no way I could get it out and unfold it. He could cut my throat before I could even get my hand in my pocket. I closed my eyes and after saying one more prayer for Frankie, I uttered the words Christ spoke on the cross at the moment of his death: “Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit.”
I expected right then to feel the blade of Peter Bong’s knife on my throat, and I held my breath in anticipation of that cold steel slicing through me. But then the strangest thing happened. As I had quit struggling and relaxed every muscle in my body, I’d gone limp and I realized my right hand was under me and something was jabbing me in the back. I moved my hand in the sand under me until I touched the object and suddenly my resolve to die at the hands of this madman was gone. I was lying on the messenger bag. The bag I’d put a flashlight in just a little while ago. The bag I’d put my father’s Colt .38 Special in just a little while ago.
I kept my eyes closed as my hand found the flap on the bag. I tried not to move too much so Peter Bong would not figure out what I was doing. Whatever the reason he was delaying my demise, I didn’t want to change the status quo. If he was having second thoughts about killing me, that was fine. Once I got the gun out of the bag, I knew I would have none. My hand found the pistol in the bag just as the first heavy drops of rain began to strike my face. I had my fingers around the grip and I leaned up enough to relieve the pressure on the bag. I opened my eyes to see Peter Bong still over me, but with his head turned to look up at the dark sky and the huge rain drops that were starting to fall. That was the opening I needed. I pulled the Colt from the bag and stuck the muzzle to his chest. And, just as he turned those devil eyes back to me, I pulled the trigger.
That close to my face, the blast from the gun shut down my ear drums and suddenly there was no more wind noise. There was no more sound of any kind except a squealing ring in my ears as I watched Peter Bong move back, his face contorting in surprise and pain. His eyes were squinted shut. When he opened them to look at me again I pulled the trigger again. The gunshot this time sounded like a little puff as Peter Bong fell back and rolled off me.
I scrambled to my feet and looked at the gun in my hand. It had blood on it. I could not believe I’d just shot a man. It took a few seconds, but the stinging cold rain drops forced me out of my daze and I remembered where I was and why I’d come here. Frankie. I stuffed the revolver back in the messenger bag and ran up the path to the cabin. Frankie was still lying face down on my sleeping bag that we’d left there the night before. His Bermuda shorts and underwear were down around his ankles, which Bong had tied together with some of the old string left over from our lining off the foundation of the cabin. Frankie’s wrists were tied together with more string and his mouth was gagged with Bong’s black bandana. I pulled it from his mouth, got out my pocket knife, and cut the strings tying him up. When Frankie finally opened his eyes and saw it was me he started screaming something, but my ears were ringing so badly I couldn’t hear him well enough to understand what he was saying. I helped him get his underwear and shorts pulled up and then he threw his arms around me and hugged me and started crying. I could barely hear his sobs but I didn’t need to; I could feel them. I knew we had to get out of there. The rain was coming down harder, the wind was getting stronger, and I didn’t know if Peter Bong was dead or not. For all I knew he could be coming for us with that knife right then.
“Come on Frankie,” I said. “We’ve got to get home.” I could hardly hear my own words; they sounded like they were echoing in my head instead of coming out my mouth. I helped Frankie to his feet, and with him holding on to me, we stumbled down the path and out onto the beach. Peter Bong was still lying where he’d fallen and the white sand around him was covered in dark red blood. Frankie and I made our way back up the path. We got on the Honda, and with the rain coming down steady now, I started the engine and we headed for home.
Chapter 20
A Night to Remember
The rain was coming down hard as Frankie and I pulled into Aunt Charity’s driveway. We had just gotten off the Honda when Daddy’s pickup came around the house, the windshield wipers flapping away. He was coming to look for us. When he saw us through his fogged over windshield, he waved and turned around to return the truck to the relative safety of the back yard.
I left the Honda sitting in the rain and took Frankie in through the front door since the garage was closed. We went straight to the bathroom and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the huge vanity mirror over the double sinks I was shocked to see blood all over my shirt. The rain had diluted it to a deep pink. Frankie was a mess. He was shivering so badly his teeth were chattering as he sat on the edge of the bath tub. I was cold from the rain too, but my adrenaline rush was keeping my nerves and body temperature in check. My ears were still ringing but my hearing was almost back to normal.
“What’s wrong with Frankie?” Sachet said from the doorway.
I turned to her. “Get out!” I yelled. The look of surprise on her face only lasted a second before she burst into tears and went running back down the hall.
I focused my attention back on Frankie. He was shaking and had a spaced out look on his face. I didn’t know what to do. I put my hands on his face to force him to look at me and that’s when I saw his eyes were no longer brown, they were all black. His pupils were so dilated they had completely crowded out the iris of each eye leaving just black holes. Frankie tried to say something.
“What?” I said.
“Pills,” Frankie said in a hoarse whisper between chattering teeth. “He made me swallow some pills.” I jumped up and sprinted for the door and ran squarely into my father.
“What’s going on? Why’d you yell at your sister?” he said.
“Daddy, Peter Bong had Frankie down at the cabin. He made him take some pills. We need to make him throw up.”
“What?!”
I didn’t have time for Daddy to comprehend what I’d just said. I pushed by him and ran down the hall and to the kitchen. Aunt Charity was standing at the sink. “I need to give Frankie something to make him throw up,” I said, panting.
My aunt turned to me. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Aunt Charity, please…I don’t have time to explain. What can I give him to make him throw up?”
“Nelson, tell me what is going on right now.”
“Frankie swallowed some pills. We need to make him throw up.”
A flash of understanding swept my aunt’s face, though I’m sure she thought I meant Frankie had intentionally taken some pills. She went to the spice cabinet and pulled out the canister of table salt. She grabbed a glass from the dish drainer and filled it half full of salt. She filled the glass the rest of the way with hot water from the tap and stirred it until most of the salt had dissolved. “Where is he?” she asked.
“In the bathroom,” I said, and motioned for her to follow me.
When we got to the bathroom, Daddy was sitting on the edge of the tub holding Frankie. It was clear my best friend was rapidly drifting out of consciousness. “Make sure he’s awake, Lem, or he’ll choke on this,” Aunt Charity said.
“What is it?” Daddy asked.
“It’s hot salt water. It’ll make him vomit, so be ready. But he’s got to be alert before we try to make him drink it.”
“Frankie!” Daddy said loudly. He shook him and slapped his face a couple of times until he opened his eyes.
“Don’t hit his nose,” I said.
“Frankie, tell me my name,” Daddy demanded. He shook Frankie again. “Tell me my name.”
“Mr. Lem…” Frankie said in a whisper.
“Good, son,” Daddy said. “I need you to drink this.” Daddy took the glass of thick steaming salt water from my aunt and held it to Frankie’s lips. “Drink it right down.”
Frankie nodded his head and said, “Okay.”
Daddy turned the glass up and Frankie gulped the mixture down until all that was left in the glass was a glob of salt goo in the bottom. Frankie’s face was all twisted up from the foul taste. As soon as Daddy saw him start to gag, he moved Frankie over to the toilet and they just made it before Frankie let go with projectile vomit into the bowl.
Daddy and I left the bathroom with Aunt Charity running a hot bath for Frankie, who was sitting on the toilet lid like a little boy as Aunt Charity pulled his tee shirt off of him. I knew he was really out of it if he was going to sit there and let my aunt undress him and get him in the bathtub.
“Daddy, we need to call the sheriff,” I said to my father as we walked down the hall.
“Why?”
“Let’s go in the living room,” I said and pointed to the doorway off from the hall.
The living room was dark because of the boarded up windows so Daddy switched on the lamp on one of the end tables. My hearing had recovered to the point I could hear the rain beating down on the roof. After Daddy and I sat down on the sofa, in a strangely calm manner, I recited to him what had transpired over the past forty minutes. When I finished, he looked confused.
“Wait a minute,” he said, scratching his brow, “you shot Peter Bong down at the river?”
“Yes, Daddy. He tried to kill me. I had to shoot him.”
“Where did you get a gun?”
“I had your Colt Detective Special. I’d put it in your old Marine Corps bag…” I realized I still had the bag hanging off my shoulder so I held it up. “I’d put it in the bag when I was over at the house looking for Frankie. I still had the bag with me when I rode down to the river to get him.”
“And that’s blood all over your shirt?” He pointed to me.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re right. We need to call the sheriff.” Daddy got up and headed to the kitchen and I went to the bathroom to check on Frankie.
I found him in a steaming hot bath full of sudsy foam from Aunt Charity’s perfumed bubble bath. He was more alert now and nearly back to his old self. “Hey,” he said as I sat down on the toilet lid.
“You feeling better?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Yeah. What did you do to Peter Bong? I remember seeing him on the beach.”
“I shot him. I think I killed him. Daddy’s calling the sheriff right now, so I guess I’m going to jail.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you have to go to jail? You were saving me. He was gonna kill me.”
“I was saving me too,” I said. “When I opened the cabin door and he saw me, he came after me with that knife. If I hadn’t shot him he would have killed me.”
“It’s good you thought to bring a gun with you.”
“I didn’t. That was providence.”
“Is that his blood on your shirt?”
I looked down at the front of my tee shirt. “Yes. I’m going and take a shower in Aunt Charity’s bathroom.” I got up and headed for the door.
“Nels?” Frankie called to me. I turned and looked back at him. “I didn’t let him do anything to me this time.”
“I know,” I said.
Normally, I could be in and out of the shower in fifteen minutes. My shower that evening took a half-hour. I knew when I got out I’d be facing Sheriff Posey. I’d killed a man and I was not a little surprised at how I was reacting to it. Maybe the shock and remorse were still to come, but so far I had no regrets. The man I killed had done unspeakable things to my best friend and was no doubt intent on killing him this time around. And he would have, without any doubt, killed me there on the beach beside that Black Shadow motorcycle. These were not rationalizing thoughts racing around in my head. These were cold hard facts supporting the justified killing of an evil man.
Aunt Charity’s bedroom was quite large, and she had a big roll-top desk over in one corner. When I came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around me, Daddy was sitting in the desk chair waiting for me.
“Is Sheriff Posey going to arrest me?” I asked.
“No…at least not tonight. He’s not even coming out here. He said he’s got bigger problems with this hurricane than dealing with you shooting a pervert who deserved it.”
“He said that?”
“That’s pretty much a direct quote.”
“He’s not even going down to the river to see if he’s dead, or call an ambulance or anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
I went over and sat down on the edge of my aunt’s bed and ran my hand through my damp hair. Now a tinge of remorse was setting in. If I’d killed Peter Bong, that was one thing. But if I hadn’t, that meant he was lying on that beach suffering. I looked up at my father and said, “What if I didn’t kill him?”
“I know what you’re thinking, son. Whether you killed him or not, Peter Bong put himself where he is right now. If he’s dead, he’s dead. If he’s on that beach bleeding to death, then so be it. He’s got no one to blame but himself. If we didn’t have this hurricane about to hit us, I’m sure Joe would be heading down there right now with medics. It’s his choice not to and you don’t have any control over that.”
“I know, but…”
Daddy got up from the chair and walked over to me. He motioned for me to stand up and when I did he embraced me. As soon as I felt his strong arms around me, I began to cry. I put my arms around him and squeezed as hard as I could. All the emotion that I’d managed to keep at bay, from the moment I saw Peter Bong’s motorcycle there on the beach until just now, came welling up as I sobbed into Daddy’s shoulder.
Aunt Charity went all out for dinner, even after having cooked a full meal for lunch. She’d fixed a pot roast with potatoes, carrots, and onions, and a big pot of string beans. When we sat down to eat in her dining room, it was a little after six o’clock and the wind was now blowing hard enough that we could hear it in the trees outside.
“How hard do you think it’s blowing?” I said as I carved my first bite of roast from the slab on my plate.
“Forty miles an hour, at least,” Daddy replied. I could see from his expression he didn’t want to talk about the storm, probably to keep from scaring my sister.
Sachet was still eyeing me warily. I had hurt her feelings deeply when I yelled at her earlier. As aggravating as she could be at times, I had never raised my voice in anger to my sister and that’s why my words had cut her to the quick. After my cry in Daddy’s arms earlier, I’d done my best to make amends with her, but my sister, even at the tender age of five and half, was a master at nursing a grudge.
Mary Alice was her usual composed self, calmly sitting there eating her dinner as the wind and rain raged outside. I had yet to tell her the full story of what had happened with Frankie down at the river. She just knew he wasn’t feeling well and had been sick to his stomach.
Frankie looked pale and I could tell he was forcing himself to eat, largely at Aunt Charity’s urging. She’d said he needed food in his system to help counteract what was left of those pills he’d been forced to swallow. Taking one last bite of roast, Frankie looked at Aunt Charity and said, “I’d really like to go lay down.”
My aunt excused herself and got up from the table. “Come on Francis,” she said, “let’s get you to bed.” Aunt Charity’s house had four bedrooms, so Frankie and I would be sharing one of her guest rooms, the one that had two twin beds. Daddy and Sachet would be in the one that had a full-size bed. Mary Alice had been using the other room, which had a single twin bed, all summer.
