Gone to Ground (9 page)

"A lot more than here. I could stop worrying about you."

My pulse went fuzzy. What to say? "This is . . . amazing. I still can't believe what's happened to you. Remember that time in the school cafeteria during seventh grade? You told me when you grew up you wanted to own a successful business. And I remember thinkin, wow, wish I had a dream like that—"

"Deena."

"Instead of just wishin people would quit teasin Stevie—"

"Deena."

"When I couldn't seem to stop it—"

Trent half stood and caught my wrist. "Be quiet." My mouth hung open. He was close enough for me to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. "Just . . . listen to me."

"Okay."

He let my arm go slowly, as if makin sure I wouldn't flit away. He eased back to the edge of the couch.

Outside my neighbor's dog barked. A car drove by. Trent and I looked at each other.

"Thing is . . ." Trent swallowed. "That day in seventh grade? I only told you half my dream—and of course it never came true. But the other half was that you were in it. You were with me."

Not a single word would come to my tongue.

"I've loved you since fifth grade, Deena. All the way through high school, when you had a crush on Ted Arnoldson. And later when you married John Cotter. When it leaked out about all his girlfriends, I wanted to strangle him 'cause he'd hurt you. I was happy when you divorced him. I knew I'd finally get a chance . . ."

How had I not seen he cared this much? "I—"

"Don't."
His hand jerked up, palm out. I could see his shirt move from his heartbeat. "Don't answer now. I'll be here for a few more days. Just think about it."

My head nodded.

"And don't worry about money, I have enough to start out. That $10,000 award for the Pulitzer—I saved it for us."

For us. So many thoughts went through my mind I couldn't begin to sort them out.

Trent's gaze dropped. Awkwardness crept between us and hung there. I played with the collar on my blouse. I didn't want to deal with this, not now. How did Trent think he could take me away from Stevie, anyhow? Who'd look after my brother if I was in New York?

Unless he was in jail.

Trent pushed to his feet. "I need to go." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Thanks for supper."

Numbly, I rose. "No problem. Thanks for comin. Tell Sally and Ray hi for me."

"Sure."

We reached the door. I placed my hand on the deadbolt. "Do they know you're goin to New York?"

"I just told them. They're excited for me."

The last sentence sounded almost defensive. "I'm excited for you, too, Trent."

He firmed his lips. "See you soon, Deena."

"Yeah. See you soon."

I watched while he walked down my porch steps. As he climbed into his old Ford he gave me a small wave. I waved back.

The door relocked and bolted, I leaned against it and closed my eyes. The smell of spaghetti lingered. Suddenly it was sickening.

With draggin steps I entered the kitchen. I eyed the dishes in the sink and shivered. The sauce looked like blood.

As I rinsed plates and scrubbed pans, two thoughts pulsed in my head. One—no way I could go with Trent, and he had to know that. And two—if he cared so much about me, would he do
anything
for me?

Like help me with my brother, no matter what Stevie had done.

FRIDAY

APRIL 22, 2011

Thursday night I sat up like Mike told me to, his
gun on the coffee table. Who were we fooling? My muscles turned to rocks while I waited, and the baby wouldn't stop kicking.

I couldn't keep doing this. I was already about to fall apart.

Finally in bed next to Mike, I couldn't sleep. Again. How could I relax, beside a killer? When I did doze off, I had nightmares. Twice I jerked awake, sure I felt a knife at my neck.

Friday morning I dragged around, hot and fat and weepy. In the shower I couldn't stop crying. I dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Put makeup on my neck, trying to hide the bruises. I hoped my OB-GYN wouldn't notice. He'd be busy at the other end.

"Wait." Mike spoke up as I was fixing to leave. "I'm goin with you."

"To the doctor?" Mike never went along. He couldn't stand to see a man checking me.

His face darkened. "Got a problem with that?"

"I was going to meet Mercy at the soda fountain afterwards." Mercy was a friend from high school. Worked afternoons at the Bay Springs Dollar General Store.

"I don't want you seein Mercy."

"Why?"

"You need to stay home, off your feet, remember? You got no business runnin around with friends."

"I stay home
all day
with my feet up on the couch."

"Good. That's the way Doc wants it."

My eyes burned. Mike was going to cut me off from everybody. As much as I'd hated Erika, I wished I had her courage. She'd have stood up to him.

Maybe she did. Now she was dead.

I picked up the phone.

"What're you doin?"

"Calling Mercy to tell her I can't see her today."

Or tomorrow. Or ever.

As we headed out to the truck, something inside me gave way. This was it, and I'd better face the truth. Either I'd live the rest of my life like this—or I had to do something about it.

No sleep for me Thursday night. How's someone
supposed to sleep when she thinks her brother's a killer? I watched my digital clock tick through the hours, its red numbers like demon eyes. At 1:00 I knew Stevie was guilty. By 2:00 I'd convinced myself he
couldn't
have pulled off the murders. He wasn't smart enough. Would have left bloody prints everywhere. Besides, why would he kill the first five women? They never did anything bad to him.

By 3:00 I was beatin myself up for ever thinkin such awful things about my brother.

Four o'clock and I was back to the bloody uniform. Stevie's obvious lies. Erika's time of death.

Who had been with her the night she died? I had to convince Trent to tell me.

Trent. How was I supposed to tell him I didn't want to go to New York? I'd break his heart.

On the other hand runnin away right now seemed mighty temptin. I could leave this mess behind. Start over. Work in a fancy New York salon.

By the time I stumbled from bed, I knew I had to make Stevie talk to me. What had he done with that bloody uniform? What if he washed it, and the blood didn't all come out? It was evidence just waitin for the cops to find.

But what if he was guilty? I couldn't protect a killer. Besides, if I messed with evidence, I could get in serious trouble.

I took a shower and got dressed. Drank a bunch of coffee to fry my already fried nerves. A half hour before I had to open the salon I strode to Stevie's trailer. His threat echoed in my head.

"I'll hurt you. Real bad."

This was crazy. I should just leave this alone.

At his door I hesitated, then knocked hard and long, the metal clangin beneath my fist.

No response.

Give it up, Deena.

I walked down the trailer to my brother's bedroom window and rapped on the glass. "Stevie, get outta bed! I need to see you."

Still nothin. I banged again. "Stevie!"

A growl drifted from inside. "Go away, Deena!"

"I'm not goin away. I want to make sure you're all right."

"I'm fine."

Sure he was. All bloody Tuesday night, with Erika killed as early as 11:00.

"Stevie, if you don't let me in, I swear I'll bust your door down!"

"You do and you'll be sorry."

I leaned against the trailer. "
Why
are you actin like this?"

"Go away, Deena." His voice hardened. "I mean it."

"I have to talk to you, and I don't want any neighbors to hear." I threw a glance to either side. On my right was the Fredericks' house. Gary would be at work, but Betty stayed home with a two-year-old. Did she have a window open? On the left sat the Dragers' little place. They were a young couple, both workin. Probably gone by now.

"Stevie, open the door!"

"
No
!"

My head lowered. I rubbed between my eyes, starting to cry.
Dear Lord, how can this be happenin?

I cupped my mouth against my brother's window. "Stevie, you
have
to tell me what happened Tuesday night."

No answer.

"Stevie!"

"Deena, I'm warnin you." His words seethed. "Go. A
way
."

The hairs on my arms raised. I pulled back from the window. He was just actin like this because he was scared. Hadn't I seen him do that enough as a child?

I leaned in once more. "The cops'll come after you. Then what?"

"Why should they?"

"You
know
why."

"You gonna tell em?" The words spat like fire. "Huh, Deena?"

"No."

"Do I need to come out and make
sure
you won't?"

My heart dropped. I turned away.
What was that you said about New York, Trent?

Gazin down the street, I fixed on the cemetery. I pictured my brother stumblin through it in the dark, tryin to wash off blood in Turtle Creek. He often cut through the graveyard and down the stone steps on the other side to go to work. Quickest way to the factory, which sat a third of a mile beyond. But he never walked through that unlit place at night.

What if he'd dropped some piece of evidence near the creek?

Hurryin back up the road, I jumped in my car and drove around the block to the rear of the cemetery. Parked near the stone steps and trotted up to the top of the knoll. The sun was already warm and not a breeze to be found. My body heated up, sweat at the back of my neck.

Straight ahead were all the graves. Turtle Creek splashed to my right. I swished through the grass toward it, eyes riveted on the water.

Along the bank weeds were pressed down, as if someone had stomped through. I stared at them. What Monday of the month was comin up?

The fourth.

Church volunteer ladies would be out here in a few days, pullin those weeds. If this was any kind of evidence at all, they'd take care of it.

Easin closer to the shallow water, I peered into it. A dragonfly hovered above a rock, the creek a-shimmer in the sun. Nothin glinted in the light. No knife blade.

Well, why should there be a knife here? The weapon was left in Erika's neck. Still, what if there'd been a second knife? Or . . . somethin else?

My heart fluttered as I made my way down the creek, searchin for anything out of place. Anything that screamed my brother had been there. My blouse grew damp and my head pounded. By the time I reached the point where the creek went beyond cemetery property, I felt sick in my stomach. Not because I'd found anything. Because I even had to
look
.

Eyes burnin, I slumped my way back up the creek and down the stone steps. The day had just begun, and I was exhausted. And I looked like the dickens. Checkin in my rearview mirror, I pushed bangs out of my eyes and wiped perspiration from my forehead.

One thing I knew, as I drove toward Main Street. After I closed up shop for the day, and while Stevie was at work, I had to find a way to get into his trailer. Once upon a time I'd had a key. Maybe it was stuck in some junk drawer.

I had to get that bloody uniform out of my brother's house.

http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2010-Feature-Writing

2010 Pulitzer Prize

Feature Writing

The Jackson Bugle

Gone to Ground

What happens to a small, quiet Southern town when evil invades in the form of a serial killer?

By: Trent Williams

October 29, 2010

(Excerpt)

The apparition in Amaryllis's cemetery is not the only kind of ghost in Jasper County. Along Highway 528 and elsewhere in the area are the ghosts of numerous settlements, once bustling burgs and now little more than pine trees and a few scattered buildings.

Amaryllis's history is much like that of its once neighboring towns—except for how it got its name. Founded in 1877 by Roland Marks, Amaryllis cut its acreage out of the longleaf yellow pine forests surrounding Highway 528—at that time a mere dirt and gravel road. The lumber business was booming in Mississippi, aided by the building of railroads. Marks, hard-working and entrepreneurial since his teens, thumbed his nose at the area's successful "Big Four" logging companies and built his own saw mill. Marks's wife, Lucinda, was an avid gardener, her favorite flower, the amaryllis, gracing their front yard in early spring. The blooms were no small feat, given the county's ubiquitous red clay dirt. Legend has it that as a birthday present Marks eventually allowed Lucinda to name the town, sure that she would dub it Marksville, or perhaps even Roland. Lucinda had other ideas. When she decided to call the town after her favorite flower Marks was livid, considering the moniker far too feminine for the home of his hard-scrabble business. But Lucinda stood her ground, and Amaryllis it became.