Cesspool (15 page)

“When can I take her home?” James asked.

“I’d like to keep her another day for observation,” Dr. Wiggins said.

James walked with the doctor out of the hospital room. They stood in the hall.

The doctor asked, “You don’t happen to be the same James Fisher who works over at the college?”

“I am,” James replied.

“My son is Leon. He has such nice things to say about you.”

“He’s very bright.”

She nodded. “Oh, he is. He just needs to figure out what he wants to do with his life. He was accepted to Penn, but I wasn’t about to spend that kind of money if he couldn’t decide on a major.”

“Well, whatever he decides, I’m sure he’ll be successful.”

“He’s wants to go pre-law. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“I could see him as an attorney.”

The doctor pursed her lips.

“Thank you for helping her,” James said.

Doctor Wiggins narrowed her eyes at James. “I hope you take good care of that young lady.”

“I will.”

The doctor pulled a business card from her coat pocket. “Here’s my card if she needs anything.”

James put the card in his wallet and entered the hospital room, shutting the door behind him. He grabbed his backpack from the chair, set it against the wall, and sat next to Brittany.

She opened her eyes.

“I brought a change of clothes for you,” he said.

She nodded, barely moving her head.

He scooted the chair closer to the hospital bed. “I was going to run down to the gift shop and get you some toiletries. I was thinking you’d need a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some floss. And maybe a brush. Is there anything else you want me to get?”

She shook her head, her eyes empty.

“Whatever you need, you just let me know, okay?”

She was unresponsive.

“I could get a book and read to you?”

She remained unresponsive.

He stood. “I’ll be right—”

“No. Stay.” She looked at him, her eyes red.

He sat down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She drifted off to sleep. Shortly thereafter, so did he.

He was awakened by a hand on his shoulder. His eyes popped open; he shot up straight in the chair, hoping it was all a bad dream.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fisher,” a young, slender nurse said. “Visiting hours are over.”

James rubbed his eyes and looked at Brittany. She was sleeping, knocked out on meds.

“What time can I come back?” James asked.

“Eight a.m.,” she replied.

James had déjà vu as he drove down the dark gravel road. He glanced in his rearview mirror expecting to see a cruiser. Nothing. He stopped at Harold’s driveway. Harold’s red Ford Ranger was parked in front of the trailer. The television cast jittery light in the window. He clenched his jaw and gripped the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and continued to his cabin.

He entered his cabin and surveyed the scene. James walked to the love seat and picked up her black dress from the floor. It was cut down the middle. The couch cushions were depressed. Images scrolled through his mind like a twisted slide show. The look of animal desire as they cut off her clothes. The grunting as they violated her petite body. Holding her down and spreading her apart on the love seat, on the bed. Taking their time to wear condoms.
Have they done this before?
Enjoying her graduation cake; eating it like conquering Vikings. He clenched his fists.
I lied to her. I said I would protect her.

“Fuck!”

He rushed out of the cabin, still dressed in his rumpled suit and dress shoes. He started his truck and reversed wildly out of his driveway. The truck fishtailed and kicked up gravel as he mashed the accelerator. His heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he turned into Harold’s driveway. He parked and ran to the front stoop, taking the steps two at a time. He banged on the front door. No answer. He banged louder. From behind the door, he heard
chik, chik
.

The door swung open, and Harold pointed a shotgun in James’s face. James put up his hands, backpedaling. He stumbled down the steps but kept his balance. Harold moved forward, the gun barrel tracking James at point-blank range. James stood on the cold, hard ground, his hands up. Harold pressed the barrel to James’s sealed mouth.

“Suck on it,” Harold said.

James opened his mouth, and Harold jammed the barrel into the back of his throat. James gagged.

“Take it,” Harold said. “I always knew you was a faggot.” His eyes were alive as he pushed the barrel in and out. He pulled the shotgun out, and James gasped for air, his hands on his knees. Harold chuckled, pointing the shotgun vaguely to the left.

James lunged, grabbing the gun. Harold squeezed the trigger, the buckshot blasting past James. His ears rang as he wrenched the gun from Harold’s grasp.

James dropped the shotgun on the ground. Harold turned to run, but James jumped on his back, tackling him to the ground. James pressed his knees into the old man’s back as he squeezed his hands around his neck. Harold’s limbs flailed as James tightened his grip like a vise. Thirty seconds later, the old man stopped fighting, but James held on, like a man possessed.

After a couple minutes, Harold clenched his fists and his body convulsed. James let go. He stood, breathless, watching the death throes. Once the convulsions stopped, Harold lay there, facedown on the frozen ground. James turned over the body. Harold’s eyes and mouth were open, his fists clenched. He checked for a pulse on his neck. Nothing.

James looked around, listening. It was quiet … dark.
I have to get rid of the body. Where? It won’t work, the ground’s frozen. It’s been unseasonably warm. It’s probably only the top inch or so. He won’t fit. Sam said it had a manhole cover. Why would they call it a manhole if a man can’t fit? The ground will be disturbed. The yard’s covered in leaves. Just rake the leaves out of the way and put them back after
. He checked the time on his phone.
9:53 p.m. I have to get out of these clothes
.

James hopped in his truck and motored back to his cabin, leaving Harold in the front yard.
With the woods and the darkness, you can’t see him from the road. Plus I need to stop getting my fingerprints on him
. He smacked the steering wheel.
Dumb ass! Why didn’t you wear gloves?

Inside his cabin, he changed his rumpled suit and dress shoes for canvas pants, a black jacket, black hat, gloves, and boots. He filled a spray bottle with concentrated oxygen bleach. He grabbed a handful of plastic bags, a rag, a flashlight, and a neatly folded tarp. He packed everything in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

He exited the cabin and opened the tool locker at the end of his porch. James set aside a pickax, shovel, and a leaf rake. He carried the tools to his truck and drove back to Harold’s trailer. He parked off the gravel road, along the woods, one hundred yards away.
What if someone sees your truck? Like who? How often is there any traffic on this road at this hour? If someone does see the truck, it’s better here than in Harold’s driveway
.

He tied a few plastic bags over his boots and hiked to the trailer carrying his tools. The television flashed in the living room window.
I need to turn that off
. As he moved toward the front stoop, he looked at Harold. He was ghostlike, his face frozen with fear.
He must have been afraid in those last moments, when he knew he was going to die
. James half expected him to get up and attack him.

He set his tools on the ground. He climbed the stoop and walked through the open door, shutting it behind him. The dingy trailer smelled like mold, cigarettes, and body odor. He crept toward the flickering light of the plasma. A worn recliner with the stuffing spilling out of its arms faced the big-screen television. On the screen, a man forced his penis into a woman’s mouth, while another penetrated her anally. The woman gagged and cried and grimaced, her pain adding to their pleasure. They called her a slut, a whore, a
cunt
. James felt nauseated. He turned off the television and departed the trailer.

James searched for the marker Sam had talked about. In the backyard, James found a piece of rebar with a pink ribbon attached to it.
Bingo
. He retrieved his tools and brought them to the backyard. He raked the wet leaves away from the site. James loosened the rebar by pushing it back and forth. He pulled it up and set it aside. He broke through the first few inches of frozen ground with the pickax. James dug down with his shovel for forty minutes until he hit the concrete manhole cover. He kept an eye on the plastic bags on his feet, adding another layer when the bags began to split. He dug for another half hour to fully expose the manhole. It was roughly two feet in diameter. His back ached as he heaved the cover off the cesspool. He shone his flashlight down the hole. The cesspool was nearly filled with a black slurry. Even in the cold weather, the rotten-egg-and-raw-sewage smell was overpowering.

He grabbed his backpack and walked to the front yard. With gloved hands, James fished out the rag and the spray bottle. He sprayed oxygen bleach on Harold’s neck. James wiped the dead man’s neck, hoping that the bleach would clean the oils from James’s fingerprints and scrub away any DNA. He then wiped down Harold’s face and hands, as well as the shotgun.

He spread out the tarp. James rolled Harold onto it, then dragged the body to the backyard. James stopped often to catch his breath. He positioned the tarp on the edge, with Harold facing the hole. His neck was red. His eyes and mouth were still wide open. His fists were still clenched. James pushed the body off the tarp. It barely budged at first, but, once hanging over the edge, gravity offered a helping hand. He pushed a little more, and Harold spilled into the black slurry. The body floated faceup near the open hole. James grabbed the rebar. He poked and prodded until Harold was wedged out of sight. James threw the rebar in with the body.

James spent the next few hours covering his tracks. He cleaned the stoop and steps to eliminate any footprints. He raked the area where the strangling had occurred. He dumped the shotgun inside the cesspool and replaced the manhole cover. James backfilled the soil and raked the leaves in place. He carried his tools to his truck and returned to his cabin. He put away his tools and took off his shoes on the porch. James placed his boots on the folded tarp and placed his gloves inside of them. He checked his phone—
2:48 a.m
.

James entered his cabin, added wood to the fireplace, and lit the insert. He took a deep breath.
She can’t see this
. He cleaned the floor of icing and cake. The cake on the kitchen table was decimated, Brittany’s name eaten entirely, only
Congratu
left. He put the cake in the trash. He pulled out the washboard and the wash bin. James washed the sheets and comforter on the bottom bunk. The top bunk appeared undisturbed. He strung the clothesline across the cabin, in front of the fireplace, and hung the bedding. He mopped the floor, cleaned the bathroom, and dusted the furniture, trying to get rid of the musty smell of body odor.

Afterward James showered and dressed. He checked the hanging sheets. They were still damp. He glanced at his phone again—
4:22 a.m.
He set the alarm on his cell and climbed into the top bunk. He dreamt of waking up in a cesspool, darkness all around him, the stench filling his nose and mouth. He shouted for help as he struggled to keep his head above the black slurry.

Chapter 13: Information Is Power

Chapter 13

Information Is Power

“Help me! Somebody help me!” he said as he pounded on the concrete above him. He heard a phone. “Help me! Help me!”

His eyes fluttered; the cabin wall came into focus. He sat upright and looked around, trying to decipher truth from fantasy. His phone chimed on the dresser below. He felt the pangs of fear deep in his gut.
I murdered someone. That actually happened.
He climbed down the ladder from the top bunk, his back sore, his head pounding. James picked up his phone and turned off the alarm, confirming the time—
7:31 a.m.

He staggered to the bathroom and rinsed with mouthwash. He threw on a pair of jeans and a fleece. James removed the trash bag from the kitchen, and he was out the door. He grabbed his boots, gloves, and the blue plastic tarp on the porch. He drove thirty minutes out of the way to a McDonald’s. James discarded the tarp, his boots, gloves, and the trash bag in a Dumpster out back. He drove toward the hospital.

On the way his head was spinning with variables and scenarios and probabilities.
Did I leave any evidence in the house? I wore gloves, a hat. My body was covered. What about transfer of DNA? Maybe I had some hair on my pants or jacket? It’s possible, but those canvas pants don’t pick up hair, and neither does my parka. It’s too slick.

And, if I did leave a hair, I can always say it was there from when I went to help Brittany. I would have to lie and say that I went all the way to the living room. Brittany’s the only one who could say differently, and, even if they asked her that, and she answered truthfully, a lawyer could easily argue that she was stressed and not thinking clearly.

I think I’m okay on the evidence, but that doesn’t mean the Stricklands won’t pin it on me anyway. Shit, they might try to kill me. The timing’s bad. I get locked up, Brittany’s attacked, and the next day, Harold’s dead. They’ll know it was me.

James exhaled and gripped the steering wheel.

Yeah, that’s a major problem. So what do I do? I could ask Yolanda to take Brittany, and I could leave, just get the hell out of here. But that’ll look awfully suspicious. I’d be on the run for the rest of my life. What if the chief was out of the picture? Would I be worried about being arrested? Dale Strickland would pick up the torch.

What if Officer Strickland was also gone? Then, no, I wouldn’t be worried. There wouldn’t be enough evidence. There’s the answer then. Chief Strickland and his son are the threats, and the threats have to be eliminated. I can’t murder again. There’s too much to cover up, too many chances for a mistake. I have to find another way.