Consumed (17 page)

We walked back the way we’d come, quickly checked the basement, which was empty, and walked back into the kitchen.

I tried to not look at what was on the kitchen counter but found my eyes glued to the area. A severed foot and what I could only assume was part of a calf sat nearest the refrigerator. From my vantage point, I could partially see into the kitchen sink—it looked to be filled with skin, bone, blood, and an off-yellow substance I couldn’t identify. My eyes went farther left across the blood-covered bit of counter to a brown-stained wooden cutting board—a section of leg roughly ten inches long sat on top the board, and I identified the joint in the center as a knee. A bit farther left still, my stomach turned, and the salivation resumed. A large brown flower-patterned Crock-Pot, covered in blood and a film of brown was clicked to On. Steam was rising from around the glass lid. One gag came and then another. I rushed past Tom, out the front door, and managed to make it to the side of the home before the vomit came. I leaned over, hands on my knees. I retched again. The sound of me becoming sick must have triggered the same reflex in Tom because when I looked to the side, he was in the same position as me. I spat numerous times before regaining my composure. Then I removed my hands from my knees and stood.

Tom motioned me toward his car and opened his trunk, so I walked to his side.

“Here,” he said. He reached into the trunk, opened a small cooler, and pulled a water bottle from inside and handed it to me.

I took the water and thanked him.

After a mouth rinse and a stick of gum, it was time to get back to the task at hand—securing the scene until a forensics team could get inside and organizing some kind of search for Richard Kirkwood.

“Beth!” I called. I could see her standing outside the old home, and I waved her back toward us.

“Anything my guys from the Clarksville office can do?” Tom asked.

“How many do you have?” I asked.

“Probably six that could come.”

“Get them here. The more of a federal presence we have until our guys get here from Memphis, the better. I don’t want to get outnumbered by the locals and have to make sure they aren’t disturbing evidence.”

“Got it,” he said. Tom grabbed his phone from his pocket and made the call back to his office.

Chief Deputy Whissell rounded the side of the house and came to Beth and me. “You guys find anything inside?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Let me go and take a look,” Whissell said. He turned and started for the back door of the house.

I was about to keep him from entering when I heard Beth tell him to stop. She stood beside me.

He turned and flashed her a confused look.

“No one else inside,” she said. “We have a forensics team en route from Memphis as we speak.”

“But there could be something inside that tells us where Kirkwood went. Memphis is four hours from here,” Whissell said.

“They’ll be here in less than four hours,” Beth said. “No one else inside.”

He shook his head, walked over to his sheriff’s SUV and pulled out his cell phone.

“I went upstairs in that old house. It’s empty,” she said.

I decided not to bother telling her she should have waited for either Tom or me. “What did Ball say?” I asked.

“He’s getting a forensics team from Memphis on the way.”

“So we are going to be sitting here for four hours,” I said.

She shook her head. “Memphis has access to air transport. Ball said he would have whoever is leading up the team that’s coming contact me as soon as they’re en route. We should hear something soon.”

“All right.”

“What was inside the house?” she asked. “It looked like I saw you and Tom bent over, heaving in the lawn.”

“Did you eat breakfast?” I asked.

“A couple of breakfast bars right when I got up. That and the coffee we grabbed.”

“You don’t want to know or see if you feel like keeping that down.”

“Worse than the old house?” she asked.

I nodded. “Not even close.”

Whissell approached us. “Hey, I have a couple of cars that are on their way as we speak. They should be able to help you get the area roped off or whatever you need. I just got off the phone with my superior. He wants me back at the station to discuss this with him.”

Whissell’s face showed worry, and the way he said the words made it sound as though he might be walking into a firing.

“When should we expect them?” I asked.

“Five or ten minutes,” he said.

I nodded.

Whissell walked to his SUV and got in.

Richard pulled into the white shed that matched Mark’s house, got out, and went to the back. He dropped the tailgate of the truck to pull his mother’s remains from inside and then carried her over to a workbench in Mark’s shed and set her down in the single chair in front of the bench. His mother’s remains slipped—Richard propped her back up.

“Thanks,” he heard.

Richard nodded. He surveyed his surroundings in the shed. His brother had an old car under a tarp, a couple of workbenches and toolboxes, and miscellaneous shelving for storage. The shed had a number of windows allowing light into the building. Richard found the remote control for the television and powered it on. He walked to the refrigerator his brother had spoken of, opened the door, and grabbed a soda from inside. He popped the top and took a sip. The television was playing a commercial, so Richard flipped through the channels, settled on a soap opera, and tossed the remote back onto the workbench where he’d found it. Richard leaned against what he figured to be the front fender of the old car with a tarp over it.

“So we’re just supposed to sit in here until your brother comes?” he heard.

“I guess,” Richard said.

“When is that going to be?”

Richard shrugged. He scooted himself up onto the hood to take a seat. The car’s suspension sank and creaked from his weight. The tarp covering the car slid from the front bumper area as he moved his weight directly over the front tire. Richard looked over and spotted the pointed edge of the chrome front bumper—the shape immediately registered as familiar. He slid himself off, went to the front of the car, grabbed the tarp, and yanked it from the front of the vehicle. He stared at the front of the green 1970s Ford LTD. Richard ran his fingers over the grille of the car as he went to the passenger side—he was looking for something specific, a dent from where he’d run into the car on his bike as a child. Richard spotted it just in front of the passenger-side front wheel.

“What the hell? Why is this thing here?” Richard asked.

“That’s your father’s car,” he heard.

“Yeah, I know. Why is it here?”

Richard pulled the tarp back over the front and stood in the shed, thinking.

“Why do you think he’d never let you come over?” he heard.

“I don’t know,” Richard said. He walked to his mother and scooped her from the chair.

Richard walked outside the shed and set her down in the dirt while he pulled the shed door closed. Then he picked her up again and started for Mark’s house. Richard’s eyes went left and right across the sparsely wooded twenty-some acres his brother owned. In the distance was a white fence that must have marked his brother’s property line. Richard imagined the land used to be a farm field at some point in time, from the wide-open areas. He looked back down the driveway toward the road, a thousand-plus yards away—no one would be able to see him carrying his mother.

Richard approached the back entrance of his brother’s 1920s farmhouse. The two-story white home with black faux shutters had a tin roof and a covered porch that wrapped the perimeter. The grass, landscaping, and home were all well kept. Richard had only been past the home once or twice in the five or so years that his brother had owned it. Mark had always given him strict orders to never stop.

“Why didn’t he want you to go into the house?” he heard. “He seemed weird about it, as though he was hiding something from you in there. Do you think it was just your father’s car? How did he get that, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Richard said.

“What could he be hiding?” Richard heard. “I’d go find out if I were you.”

Richard climbed the five stairs up the back porch and set his mother near the door. He kicked the welcome mat to the side to look for a key beneath but saw nothing. He twisted the knob and smirked—the door was open, so he let himself into the house.

“You’re just going to leave me out here?” he heard.

“You’ll be fine,” Richard said.

He left the door standing open and entered into the home’s kitchen. The area was neat and tidy—no plates lying on the granite counters, no mess or clutter. Richard stood still, listening to hear anything—the home was dead silent. He walked farther into the kitchen—the wooden floor squeaked with each step. Richard stopped at the refrigerator and pulled the door open, and something caught his eye right away. He stood holding the door open and staring at the stacks of Tupperware all neatly arranged. He’d seen this before, years ago. Richard slid one of the Tupperware containers out. He removed the lid and looked inside—meat. Richard tossed it onto the counter and pulled out another and then another. The contents of the fourth container, which looked to be a skin on piece of bicep, complete with a faded barbed-wire tattoo, confirmed his suspicions. Richard rummaged the cabinets and found numerous bottles of Wild Turkey.

“He’s here,” Richard said.

He walked from the kitchen to search the house. The next rooms, beyond the kitchen, were a living room off to the right and a bathroom and laundry room to the left. Richard stopped briefly and glanced into the living room. A fireplace took up the left wall, surrounded by brown leather furniture. Richard didn’t spot a photo anywhere. Generic countryesque art covered the walls. He glanced left toward the bathroom and laundry room—both empty. Richard continued directly ahead and looked to the right of the front door. The room contained a pair of wicker chairs and various potted plants—some kind of sun room looking out toward the street. After Richard turned left and walked past the front door on his right, he glanced up the flight of stairs to his left and continued forward into the next room. He stood in a wooden-walled den—the den contained bookshelves filled with books, a few leather lounge chairs, and a television yet was also empty. Richard turned around, walked back to the flight of stairs, and went up.

The green, flower-patterned carpeted stairs creaked with each step Richard took. He reached the landing and looked left to right—the hallway spread to both sides, two closed doors in each direction. Richard went to the right first and found the first door was a bathroom, the second an empty spare bedroom. Richard turned and headed to the doors on the left.

He entered the first and stood in shock. An old man lay upon a blue-plaid-blanketed bed. The man’s left arm was cuffed to the metal bars of the bed frame. Richard took a step into the room. The man had shoulder-length white hair and a thick white beard. He wore nothing but a pair of dingy white boxer shorts. The man appeared frail—Richard could see the outline of the man’s ribs. His face was creased with wrinkles yet somewhat familiar. Richard noticed a pink area of scars around the man’s cuffed left wrist.

“Hello?” Richard asked.

The man scooted up against the bars of the headboard and looked back at Richard. He reached across his body with his right hand and took a pair of glasses from the nightstand. As soon as the man put the glasses on, Richard knew who he was.

“Dad?” Richard asked.

“Richie? Is that you under all that hair?”

Richard walked into the room and sat at the edge of the bed.

His father reached for him and rubbed him on the head with his free hand. “Your brother told me he was going to kill you.”

“What?” Richard asked.

“He said he was going to your house to kill you right before he left. Said that you were going to get him caught and he had to put you down. How did you find me?”

“Mark told me to come here.”

“He’s trying to trick you. He only told you to come here so he could kill you here.”

“He’s not going to kill me.”

“You don’t know your brother very well. No time to explain it all now. Get me out of here before Mark comes back. If he knows that you found me, he’ll kill us both.”

“Why?” Richard asked again. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why are you cuffed? Where have you been?”

“No time. Just go to the shed and get something that can cut through these damn handcuffs.”

Richard stood and looked at the old man.

“Go, Richie! Your brother isn’t what he seems. He’s going to kill you.”

Richard left the room. His feet pounded down the steps. Richard passed the living room and kitchen and left from the house the way he entered.

“What’s going on?” he heard his mother ask as he passed her on the porch.

Richard didn’t respond. He jogged to the shed and found a hacksaw sitting inside one of the toolbox drawers—Richard yanked the saw out and jogged back toward the house. He took the front porch steps in two lunges.

“Are you going to tell me what is happening?” Richard heard his mother ask.

“Dad is upstairs. Mark has been keeping him as a prisoner.”

“Your father is dead, Ritchie.”

“He’s alive. I just saw him.”

“Are you sure you saw him up there?” he heard.

Richard stopped for a moment as he briefly questioned reality. His thinking was interrupted by a sheriff’s SUV pulling toward the shed and parking.

“Shit,” Richard said.

He ran into and through the house and up the stairs. He hurried to the spare bedroom his father was in. The old man cuffed to the bed quickly dissolved any doubts about his reality.

“Mark is here,” Richard said.

“Hurry up. Cut through the chain on the cuffs.”

Richard began sawing. He heard his brother running through the lower level of the house below.

“Dammit, Richie, saw faster.”

He heard pounding footsteps up the staircase, followed by his brother’s voice. “Richie, what the hell are you doing?”

“Why didn’t you tell me he was alive?”