Текст книги "Guest Of Honor: A Novelette"

Автор книги: Mark S. R. Peterson

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 4 страниц)

 

IV.

Sandy

Megan had an older brother, who was sixteen the day she was born.  His name was Sandy.

If one had a label for him—oh, how society loves their labels for those whom they consider odd—it may have been autistic.  He wasn’t a Rain Man kind of autistic, but he was somewhere within the spectrum.  It didn’t really matter to their parents or Megan.  They all loved him.

And he always reciprocated in kind.

Sandy graduated from high school, only because the teachers didn’t know what to do with him.  It wasn’t that he was dumb.  He was far from it.  He could read, although limited himself to the Sunday funny pages and an occasional comic book.

But put him up against a troubled engine, he could figure it out, even if it took him hours to decipher the problem.  He always came up with a solution.  Once, their father Stuart had a tractor that just couldn’t stay running.  Sandy poked and prodded for close to twenty hours straight before he got it running again.

Sandy was also big.  Not just in muscle and brawn, but also in height.  He stood over six and a half feet tall, a feat he achieved when he was in the ninth grade.

At an early age, Megan rode on his shoulders whenever he walked the four miles to town, his bushy beard tickling her legs.  When she was older, she’d also walk, sharing with him what she was doing in school while he’d tell her all about engines and crops—for many years it all sounded like a foreign language to her, but over time she learned more and more from him.

“He’s no dummy,” she’d tell anyone who tried to make fun of him.  “He could probably fix the Space Shuttle if it ever broke down.”

The United States Postal Service has an unofficial creed that goes something like this: in rain or sun, snow or sleet, we’ll deliver the mail.  This also described Sandy.  He’d walk no matter what the weather looked like.  He didn’t mind if it was forty degrees below zero, with a howling northeaster at his face, or a hundred and ten degrees with a ninety-eight percent humidity.

A few days before Megan’s fourteenth birthday, Sandy took off to town to pick up a part for one of their tractors.  Stuart was busy in the fields and their mother, Sue, was shampooing the living room carpets.  Megan had to help clean or else she would’ve gone with.  Sandy wasn’t one to ever complain and rarely got sick.  That morning, though, he threw up in the upstairs toilet.

“You okay?” Megan asked.

Sandy, with his glasses dangling from his fingers while clutching the bowl, turned to look at her.  A line of spit trailed down into the porcelain depths.  “Fine,” he said, straining to hold a grin.  “Just a . . . little tired.  Need to . . . get the carburetor rings though.  You . . . you coming?”

“Can’t.  Mom said I gotta stay and help clean.”

Sandy stood up, not bothering to wipe the spit from his lips.  “I’ll go double-quick!” he exclaimed.

Then he threw up again.

An hour later, a Sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the driveway.  It wasn’t one of the deputized minions.  It was the Sheriff himself.  He held his hat in his hands, then said to all of them, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.  Sandy was struck by a truck.  He . . . passed away.  I’m truly sorry.”

Because of the nature of Sandy’s death, the county had an autopsy done in case charges had to be filed.  But when they opened him up, they found his entire insides were full of cancer.

Bart turns the fan down a notch.  “I take it that’s why he was sick that morning?”

She sighs.  “The doctors said he must’ve been sick for a long time.  But like I said, he never complained.  If he wasn’t feeling good, he never said a word about it.  The coroner also said there was so much cancer, it was a wonder he stayed alive for as long as he did.”

They stop at a T-intersection.  The GPS indicates that they turn left.  Passing right in front of them is a John Deere combine—a gigantic green machine, with its signature yellow etched along the side.  It’s also heading in the same direction as them.

“What do you think?” Bart asks, waving at the combine driver.  “Follow it or find a way around?”

“Just follow it,” she says.  “Don’t want to get lost out here.”

“Good idea.”

Once they’re behind the green beast, crawling at ten miles an hour, he says, “Your parents must’ve been devastated.”

“When Sandy died, they went downhill.  Fast.  I probably didn’t help either.  I started rebelling, just so I could get their attention.  I went out to parties and started drinking and even stayed out all night.  It didn’t help.  They didn’t care what I did.  I even came close to flunking out of school.  Then, a month ago, they were heading home from playing Bingo when Dad veered off the shoulder a little and struck a deer.  They stopped to check it out.  That’s when they saw the man’s legs.”

“Holy mackerel.  They hit a man?”

Megan scans the short blog post on the prostitute killing, then closes the web browser.  “They thought they did.  They also thought the legs looked like Sandy’s.”

“Your brother?  That can’t be, could it?”

Megan shakes her head.  “Mom called me on her cell phone, just frantic.  They were both screaming that they thought they had hit a deer but killed Sandy instead.  I told them they were crazy, that Sandy’s been dead for years, but she kept screaming, ‘He’s right here!  He’s right here!  We hit him!’  Then the phone went dead.”

“Prepare for right turn in point-seven miles.”

“I called back, but they didn’t answer.  The Sheriff said both had died from heart attacks when they thought they killed their son.”

“It wasn’t your brother though, right?”

“Of course not.  There was a man there though, but he was already dead.  Weird how it all came about.  The deputy found the dead deer no more than ten feet away from the man’s body.  The man looked to be hitching as well and . . . just died.  Never did find out why.”

“Turn right in point-five miles.  Your final destination is one-point-two miles away.”

 

V.

The Engels

They soon come upon a mailbox with THE ENGELS stamped boldly in black along the side.  Below that in more elegant script are Judy and Sam.

Bart turns off the GPS.

He eases along the driveway, a long, narrow stretch of road that cuts deep into the woods.  A barbed wire fence runs along either side of it.  Along the left is a sizeable herd of sheep while the right seems to be the home for at least one horse—a brown stallion with white socks on two of its feet.

“You don’t have a brother down in the Cities, do you?” Bart asks.

Megan peers over at him, a shiver running down her spine.  Her legs feel like rubber.  She glances over at the door lock—suddenly overcome by déjà vu—and sees it still unlocked in case she has to bolt.

“If you had,” he says, “you would’ve mentioned him in your little story.  You spoke of Sandy as if he was your only brother.  Right?”

“Ah-”

“Don’t worry about it, Megan,” he says.  “I apologize if I pried too much.  Whatever it is that you’re going to do . . . well, that’s your business.  Not mine.  I’ll get you there safely though, and then you can be on your way.”

She swallows.  “Okay.”

The driveway curves to the left, around a small pond, and comes back to the right, ending at a small two-story house.  It has old white siding, much of the paint peeling off.  Three pick-ups, two older Fords and an old Chevy, are lined up in front along the porch.

Megan pops the door open but waits before getting out.  There isn’t a farmer she knows who doesn’t have at least one dog running around, some friendly and some not-so much.

Bart grabs his briefcase from the back seat, and is already walking to the house when Megan realizes that there’s no dog to greet them.

Grass along the house stands close to a foot-tall and leaves drape across much of the landscape.  Along the side of the house are two large barns—matching the house in drab, peeling white—with so many detached shingles the roofs look like checkerboards.  Between the barns is a rusty pickup, the Chevy emblem on the grill broken right down the middle.

“Do you normally meet clients at their home?” Megan asks.

“Depends on the circumstances,” he says.  “Most don’t need more than an hour or two of paperwork.  Those I do in the office.  But if the client has substantial wealth or they have an unusual situation, then I’ll meet with them at another locale.”

Megan secures the backpack across her shoulders.  “You call this wealth?”

“I would’ve thought having grown up on a farm, you’d know that most wealth isn’t lined with gold watches and sports cars,” he says.  “Trust me, there’s more here than meets the eye when you take into account machinery and farmland.  I’ve met millionaires who live in one-story ramblers and own a twenty-year-old car.  It’s the not-so-clever ones who buy everything under the sun on credit and wonder where all of their money went.”

The front door swings open.  A hefty woman, drying her hands on a towel, says, “There he is, our guest of honor.  Any troubles finding the place?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Engels,” Bart says, switching the briefcase from his right hand to his left.  He shakes her hand.  “A pleasure to finally meet you.  Where’s Mr. Engels?”

“Right here,” a booming voice sounds.  A man in a white T-shirt, with sweat stains in all the right places, emerges from the side of the house.  He’s carrying an old sink, with one end beveled down like they use in beauty salons.  “Bud, put this in the house.”

Next to him is a tall, stocky boy with a blond crewcut.  “Yes, Daddy,” he says, grabbing the sink.

“Put it by the front door.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Nice to have a strapping young man around like that,” Bart says.

“Sure is.”  Sam shakes Bart’s hand.  “Sorry I wasn’t able to get the place cleaned up for you.  Isn’t everyday we have such an honored guest visit us.”

“Oh, please, I am not an honor-”

“Bullshit!” Sam barks.  “You saved my uncle’s farm.  Kept the government’s grubby little hands off of it.  It’s been in the family for generations too, ever since they came over from Germany.  They should make your birthday a national fucking holiday.  Woman, is supper ready?”

“Almost,” Judy says.  She then sidesteps and eyes Megan up and down.  “And who is your companion?”

“Oh, yes,” Bart says, facing Megan as if seeing her for the first time.  “She’s-”

“Megan Dust,” she says.

“If I caught my daughter wearing an outfit like that, I’d tan her hide so hard she wouldn’t be able to sit for a month,” Sam says.  He crosses his arms.  “Looks like you’re not even wearing any clothes.”

“Dust?” Judy asks.  “Are . . . your parents Stuart and Sue?”

Megan nods.

“Sam,” she says, twisting the towel in her hands, “this girl just lost her parents.  Remember that horrible accident a month ago?  Tragic, how they thought they killed a man who was already dead.”

“I don’t remember that,” Sam says.

“Well, if you watched the news once and a while instead of-”

“I put food on the table, don’t I?” he says, his voice rising.

“Of course,” she says.  “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss, dear.  Please, everyone come inside.  We’ve reserved a special place at our table for our honored guest.”

They climb the steps.  Sam is right behind her.  “Bart a relative of yours?” he asks in a low voice.

“No,” Megan says, turning back a little.  “I was hitchhiking out on 75 and he picked me up.”

When she comes to the door, she notices that Bud is back along the bottom of the steps, his arms no longer crossed.  He twists his hands together.  “So you never met him until today?”

She nods.

“Please tell Judy I need to check on something,” he says softly.  “I’ll be right back.”

He marches off to one of the pickups lined up near the house.  As she turns to go inside, she looks around, struck by the utter seclusion this place holds.  Back along the driveway, she spots three deer.  All does.  Although, given this time of year, even bucks have nubs on their heads.

The porch door screeches as she heads inside, where she’s greeted by the fresh aroma of baked bread, pot roast, and apple pie.  She feels like she’s just walked into a time machine, in pre-Sandy death days, when her mother baked from scratch on a daily basis.  After Sandy’s death, those times were far and few.

Seated at the dining room table is Bart, organizing a few papers and making small talk with Judy.  His briefcase is at his feet.

As Judy lifts a roaster from the oven, Megan says, “Um, your husband wanted me to tell you that he had to check on something, and that he’ll be right back.”

Judy smiles.  “Thanks, dear.  I meant what I said out there.  About your parents.  I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” Megan says.  She’s been told sorry so many times since their death that it’s getting to the point where she’d like to start telling people to quit.  But not yet.  There’s still something oddly comforting by it.

“Cindy, please meet our other guest,” Judy says.

From a hallway along the far side of the kitchen, a girl of about twelve, her hair tied back in a pristine French braid, strolls in.  She catches her breath when she spies Megan, quickly shifting her gaze down.

“Nice to meet you,” she says.

“Thanks, you too.”

Megan pulls down the sides of her mini-skirt, feeling severely underdressed in the midst of these other ladies—both wearing long flowery dresses that hide all except their feet.

“Is there a restroom I can use, Mrs. Engels?”

“Certainly,” Judy says.  She points back at the entryway.  “Up the stairs, right at the top.  Can’t miss it.”

The stairs are so steep, Megan has to cling to the railing to keep from falling backwards.  Each step creaks and moans like a macabre orchestra.  She peers down the narrow hallway, all of the doors shut.

There is one door on the left and three on the right.  At the far end is a small circular window, overlooking both a slim landing and another door on the left.

The first door on the left opens to a vast room.  Two dormers, the windows devoid of curtains, are along the opposite wall, and the only other occupants of the room are a box spring and a dresser.

A bold stream of sunlight fills the room, a heavy coat of dust particles floating through like a swarm of flies.  She walks over to a window.  She hears a muffled thump.  Down below, she sees Sam and Bud wandering off in the direction of the barns.

Right across the hall are two other bedrooms, albeit half the size of the other one yet equally devoid of belongings, and a small closet.

She strikes gold when she opens the door along the landing.  The bathroom bears sign of a bit more life, but only in terms of toilet paper and a faded green bar of soap, the latter dried and cracked.

She closes the door.  Opening the medicine cabinet, she finds an old metal razor, a near-empty bottle of Hai Karate aftershave, and another bar of soap, this one still wrapped in wax paper.  As she sits and goes about her business, she pulls out her phone.

She opens the web browser again, and searches through the history for the Twin Cities Crime Blogger she found earlier.  She clicks on the “prostitute killings” tag along the bottom of the post, and finds nine total blog posts dedicated to the killings.

 

VI.

Samantha

The first prostitute killing, two years ago, occurred at the Walnut Hotel.  According to the blogger, the hotel was known for being rented by the hour, and the price of admission was typically cash transactions.

Her name was Samantha.

She grew up on a small farm near the Minnesota-Iowa border, and was the oldest of three siblings.

A source at the U of M indicated to me that she was enrolled to start in the fall, the blogger writes.  She had declared a major in business, although there was neither no record of housing nor any federal loan papers in process at the time of this post.  Speculation may lead one to believe she was “working” to avoid going into debt, for her wallet found at the scene contained over eight hundred dollars in cash: a collection of 50s and 20s.

Why would this hardworking farm girl serve a darker life on the streets, you may wonder?  It’s a tale that’s been told many times, and in this case we may never know the answers.  Prostitutes lead a dangerous lifestyle, and it’s the reason why so many latch onto male handlers for protection.  It is unknown at this time if Samantha had such a companion.  When asked, Minneapolis Investigator Simon Templeton said, “Her cell phone recovered at the scene has been thoroughly scanned and little evidence has been able to be gleaned off of it.  We suspect she was working her ‘business’ alone.”

Megan peruses the rest of the blogs regarding the prostitute killings, then closes out of the browser.

She heads back downstairs, although takes the stairs right next to the landing.  Like upstairs, the hallway is lined with shut doors—all save for the room right across from her.

In it are four sleeping bags, rolled up neatly along the far corner, and a pile of pillows and blankets.  There’s a dresser to her left.  On it is a framed photograph of a girl, possibly in her late teens.

The front door bangs shut.

“Supper ready yet?” Sam asks.  “Where’s that other girl?”

“Upstairs using the restroom,” Judy says.

Megan eases out into the hallway, and is halfway along it when he peeks over his wife’s shoulder.

“There she is,” he says, jutting his chin forward.

The front door opens again.  It’s Bud.

Judy places the last piece of pot roast onto a serving tray.  She sets it on the table.  “Did you find that tool you were looking for?” she asks Sam.

“Sure did.  Right where I thought it was.  Okay, let’s eat.”

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Engels,” Bart says.  “This meal looks amazing.  Reminds me of my mother.  She was a great cook too.  Say, before we get started, where’s the restroom?  I’d like to wash up.”

Megan points up and says, “At the-”

“Right there,” Sam says, pointing to a door just down the hallway off the kitchen.

How come they didn’t let me use that one?

As soon as the bathroom door is shut, Judy turns to her husband and asks, “What did-”

“Shh!” he says sharply, glancing over at Megan.  He moves Bart’s briefcase by the chair at the head of the table.

Judy regards Megan for a moment, then continues moving food onto the table in silence.

Megan wants to help—years of helping her own mother draws back those old creatures of habit—but refrains from doing so.

The bathroom door opens.

“What lovely decorations you have in there,” Bart says.

“Thanks,” says Judy.

Sam places his hands on the back of the chair set at the head of the table.  “As our guest of honor, it would be appropriate that you sit here.”

“Why thank you, that is most kind.”

As soon as Bart sits, Sam sits to his left and Bud to his right.  Sam points to the chair next to Bud and says to Megan, “You can sit there.”

Megan runs her hands along her mini-skirt—as if she can pull it down any more without investing in a nonexistent fabric stretcher.  Judy and Cindy sit across from her.

Sam then folds his hands together, and everyone else follows suit.  At this moment, Megan feels overwhelmed with emotions, memories of years past flooding over her at once, for her family used to pray before every meal.

That is, until Sandy’s death.

Everything changed then.

 

VII.

Justice

“So, how much acreage do you have around here?” Bart asks, a spoonful of mashed potatoes hovering in front of him.

Sam slices his fork through the roast beef.  “Two forties of woodland where the house sits,” he says.  “Then, we have fifty forties of farmland on this side of the road and close to a hundred across from it.  I know it doesn’t look like much, but we live a very simple life, Mr. Simms.”

“Oh, please, call me Bart.”

“Boy!” Sam barks, glaring across at Bud.  “Did you wash your hands?  That’s grease I see, isn’t it?  How many times have I told you-”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Bud says, quickly pushing himself up from the table.  He strides over to the kitchen sink and turns on the water.  Then, without getting so much as a single drop on his hands, he slips over to the front door.

“Kids,” Bart says, chuckling.  “Reminds me of the last time I visited my children.  My granddaughter Claire was outside playing in the mud when they told her to come in for lunch.  She comes inside, grabs a burger, and starts chowing down, all with mud still on her hands.”

“I would’ve whupped her,” Sam says.  “Whup ‘em good and they’ll never do it again.  Except this one.”  He points over at Bud.  “He usually needs two or three before it’ll get through that thick skull of his.”

“I thought your granddaughters were Clara and Crystal?” Megan asks.

“Pardon?” Bart asks.

“You told me before they were Clara and Crystal,” Megan says.  “Who’s Claire?”

Bud saunters back into the kitchen, carrying the sink.  He eases it down behind Bart, the beveled edge facing the table.

Bart is silent for a moment, staring down at his plate.  Then, he sighs.  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.  It’s Claire, not Clara.”

But I heard Clara before.

Sam and Judy exchange glances.

“Sorry, I thought you said Clara before,” Megan says.  “I have a friend named Clara, so maybe that’s what I was thinking.  I guess I heard wrong.”

Sam gives Bud a slight nod.

From a drawer, Bud pulls out a long butcher knife.

In a flash, Sam strikes an arm straight into Bart’s chest, tipping him right over in his chair.

“Hey what the-” Bart yells out as he lands backwards.

Bud brings the knife straight down.

A muffled scream, followed by a gasping gurgle, fills the room.  Bart’s feet and hands flap around like a swimmer.  Bud’s and Sam’s faces are soon splattered with streams of blood.

The screams quickly die away, Bud’s arm wrenching down, over and over again.  Then, there is a brief crunch.

“There, it’s free,” Sam says, lifting up Bart’s head.  He shakes it a few times, letting the blood drip down, and tosses it into the sink.  He wipes his sweaty forehead, thin streaks of blood etched across it like war paint.  He moves the faucet over to the unoccupied sink, and washes his hands and face.

Bud stands, the butcher knife dripping with blood.  “How long do you think it’ll take for all the blood to get out?” he asks, no longer sounding like the bumbling boy he was earlier.

“Not sure.  Shouldn’t be too long.  We’ll just let it sit for a while.  I hope that sink’s big enough.  You sure the bottom is sealed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.  You did good.  Real good.  Very proud of you.”

Sam sits and goes back to devouring his meal.  After cleaning his hands and face, Bud also sits.  Megan nearly drops her fork, but catches it at the last second.

I just saw someone get murdered!  Who the hell are these people?

She looks around.  There’s no way to escape.  She’s trapped in the back corner.  She’d have to barrel around Bud and then leap over the headless corpse of the attorney who could never seem to get the names of his granddaughters straight.

Besides, even if she makes it outside, this house is literally in the middle of nowhere.

“Dean?” Cindy asks.

“What, dear?”

Cindy points across at Megan.

Why did she call him Dean?

Sam set down his fork and knife.  “Sorry, I almost forgot about you.  You’re probably wondering what-”

“Get away from me!” Megan exclaims, pushing herself away from the table and brandishing a butter knife and fork in each hand.  “I mean it!”

“Megan, please,” Bud says, holding his hands up.

“She needs to be told,” Cindy says.

“No, Karen,” Sam says, slowly standing.  “I need to show her.  It’s the only way she’ll understand.”

“But tell her something quick first before she goes running off without giving us a chance to explain.”

Sam folds his hands together.  “We’re not Sam and Judy Engels,” he says.  “We’re Dean and Karen Larson.  Our kids really are Bud and Cindy, but two years ago we had three.  A daughter.  Samantha.”

“The picture in that back bedroom,” she says, setting her fork down.  She still clings to the knife.  “That’s her, isn’t it?”

Karen glances over at her husband.  “Yes.  She was killed.  By him!”  She says this last part while pointing over at the beheaded attorney.

“We stopped a killing spree,” Bud says.  “Four girls.  My sister was the first.  Too bad it took us so long to get him.”

“Come outside with me, Megan,” Dean says.  “I need to show you something.”  He points down at Bart.  “Look up as much as possible, if you can.  You don’t want this in your head, giving you nightmares.”

She relents her grip on the knife.  She eases around the table, hearing a faint gushing sound.  Through peripheral vision, she sees the sink quite full of crimson blood—the neck cradled perfectly in the bevel.

She follows him outside, her legs wobbly.  He leans inside Bart’s Cadillac and pushes a button.  The trunk lid pops open.  Spread out along the bottom is a checkered blanket.  A small toolkit lies along the right side and two quarts of Mobil oil are set neatly along the left.

Dean lifts the blanket.

Underneath are coils of rope, leather straps, chains, and a nine-inch long knife, the latter looking like a miniature sword.

“You never would’ve made it to where you were going,” Dean says.  “You would’ve been victim number five.”

Suddenly, she recalls the blog posts on the prostitute killings.  Especially the first one, about the farm girl.

“Bart was . . . the prostitute killer?”

He nods.

“How did you know it was him?” she asks.

He replaces the blanket, then shuts the trunk.  “That’s a long story.  Let’s go inside.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” she says.

“I know.”

As they trudge back up onto the porch, she stops.  “This isn’t your house, is it?  Your wife had me use the upstairs bathroom.  All of the rooms up there were empty.  You have sleeping bags in that back bedroom.”

“No one was meant to see what we just did,” he says.  “We almost postponed it when we saw you.  But when you said he picked you up along the road, I knew today wasn’t going to end well for you if we didn’t finish what we’ve been planning.”