Leather Maiden (29 page)

I put the .38 back under my shirt, took out the clasp knife Booger gave me, and popped it open and tried to rush over to Belinda.

As I rushed forward something flashed and I caught it out of the corner of my eye, and I moved, but I was too slow. A long blade caught light from the quarter-moon window in front of the big face of the clock and winked at me. In that moment I saw Caroline's beautiful face twisted up in a knot of rage under a head of dyed black hair. The blade hit me, slicing down my back. But I turned quick enough that it went in shallowly, then it stuck my hip. I let out a yelp.

I slashed out with my knife and missed. Caroline moved away quickly, to the side of the gear, then she came at me, the knife moving like a lightning strike. I was cut on the arm before I felt it. I knew enough about knives and knife fighting to bring the backs of my arms up. You're going to get cut, that's the part you want cut. Soft sides of the arms, that's where the vital vessels are. You get cut deep there you can kiss your ass goodbye because you're going to bleed out fast. Caroline knew the knife, she knew what she was doing; someone had taught her.

I skipped back, tried to catch Belinda out of the corner of my eye. Her head was lifting as the rope pulled her. I did a somersault, rolled up to a squatting position in front of her. I used my knife to cut the rope at her feet. She went up on her tiptoes as the gear pulled. Now, instead of being pulled apart, she was only in jeopardy of being strangled slowly.

Caroline's blade struck as I rose to my feet, trying to cut the rope around Belinda's neck. Her blade went into my back and I saw a white light, almost fainted. I turned as she was stabbing again. I dodged, went low and hit her just above the shins with the side of my body. It made her bend in half over me and the downward thrust of her knife carried her forward and the tip of the knife stuck in the wooden platform.

I whirled to face her. She was trying to pull the knife out of the platform. I kicked her in the ribs as if I were trying to make a field goal from the fifty-yard line. She rolled almost to the edge of the platform.

Above me, in the darkness, amidst the clicks of well-oiled gears, the moving of the clock hands, I heard Booger say, “Peep-eye, motherfucker,” then there was a sound like a tubercular octogenarian coughing up phlegm, followed by, “That knocked a turd out of him.”

Caroline recovered. She jerked the knife free, came at me. The rope lifted Belinda off the ground. Her head twisted beneath the hood. She shook her head hard and the hood came off and fell. It landed on Caroline's back, caused her to jerk around and slash at the air.

I tackled her, drove her back. We almost went off the platform. She came down with the knife and it went into my shoulder. I let out with a grunt and my butt cheeks pinched together hard enough to crack a pecan. I caught her knife hand in my left hand, brought my knife down. As it descended, in a micro-moment I saw all those bodies in Iraq, saw Gregore's head jump apart, then that damn shoe in the fork of the tree. All of it rushed at me like a freight train balling the jack down a deep grade. The blade went into Caroline's throat and the force of it was so hard I could hear it stick in the platform as it came out of the back of her neck.

Her eyes flashed with surprise and then something moved there that almost appeared pleasurable. She dropped her knife and her fingers clutched at my shoulders, dug into me like talons. She let out a birdlike shriek and then blood was shooting up from her throat and hitting me in the face and her hands fell back and the backs of her knuckles slammed against the platform.

I stood up, leaving the knife in her. It was then that I remembered the .38 resting at the small of my back.

I looked at Belinda.

The gear had turned, raising her up. I grabbed Caroline's knife, ran toward Belinda, but the gear turned again and lifted her higher than I could grab.

She was wriggling and thrashing. I turned and raced up the stairway to the platform above. When I got there I couldn't reach the rope. Another moment she would be equal with me and there wouldn't be anything I could do but watch her pass. Climbing higher to another platform wouldn't change that. It would be the same thing all over again all the way up.

I leaped and grabbed at the rope, ended up clinging to it like a spider, just above Belinda. I cut the rope above my head and it dropped. As we fell there was light and shadow and then a sudden jolt and an explosion of lights. The lights went away and for a moment there was darkness; the floor felt like it was spinning. When the spinning stopped, I opened my eyes slowly. I was looking up at the ugly face of Booger.

“Belinda?” I said.

“You're lying on top of her, bro.”

44

Belinda and I had landed on the platform where Caroline had died. It had been a pretty good fall, and it was the only platform in line with us. Had we been one platform higher when I cut the rope, we would have landed in the same spot, but a whole lot harder.

Belinda had a gag around her mouth, and when I took that off there was a blue rubber ball clenched between her teeth. I pulled that out and she coughed and gasped for air. I held her head up and she began to gulp the air and pull it in more naturally. Her throat was red with rope burn.

She grabbed me and hugged me, but she was as weak as a minute-old kitten.

I looked at Booger. “Is Stitch dead?”

“Only way he'll move again is if a ventriloquist sticks his arm up his ass. Got him right in the eye. His left.”

I continued to hold Belinda, letting her get her strength back.

“You know how I made that shot?” Booger asked.

I didn't care, but I let him talk. He was as proud as if he had just discovered the cure for cancer.

“Used the rifle stock nub to crimp the glass at the corner of one of the windows. You hit it there it'll crack, but the whole glass won't come out. Doesn't make a lot of noise. I used my knife to pick the cracked glass out till there was a space for the rifle barrel. I'll tell you something cool. I put that rifle through the hole, maybe an inch of it sticking out, and I saw him at the window across the way, and it was one of those windows you can crank up, an old-style window—”

“I know,” I said.

“And I put the bead on him. He was looking down at the crowd, picking out his target, you know, and then just as I was about to squeeze, he had that doe-in-the-forest moment, when he senses something. He turned his head slightly and looked at me. I could see the look on his face through the scope. Everything he ever was or thought he was drained out of his face like shit running out of a sick dog's ass. I pulled the trigger. It was choice.”

“I heard the silencer cough.”

“Well, no one else did. No one will know that sonofabitch is dead in that office until someone comes in to take out the trash. I see you put the bitch down.”

I looked over at Caroline. Her arms were outstretched and her head was hanging off the platform and the knife was sticking up from her throat. There was a lot of blood.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Damn,” Booger said. “She's a looker. What a waste of good ass. Well, I'm going to get your knife, there's fingerprints all over that.”

“My blood is all over the place too. Not to mention hers.”

         

Belinda finally had it together enough that I could help her walk. She tried to talk, but nothing came out but a kind of squeak. I got her downstairs and set her on the floor with her back against the wall by the exit.

Booger and I got some cleaning stuff off the side of the janitorial buggy Caroline had used to bring Belinda in, spruced me up, stuffed some paper towels into my wounds. None of them were bad, but they hurt.

We found some rags in a closet, and some more janitorial supplies there, a mop and bucket, and Booger carried all of it up to the platform and went to work. I used the rags and helped him clean. Booger pulled the knife out of Caroline's neck and we wrapped her head and neck in rags and carried her downstairs and put her in the janitorial buggy, her knees under her chin. Then we cleaned the blood that had leaked down from the platform onto the floor below. Even though there was a lot of blood, altogether this only took us about thirty minutes.

The rope had wadded up in the gears, but the gears were strong and they had broken the rope and dropped pieces of it on the floor. I gathered those up and Booger climbed up the stairs and got the rope that had tied Belinda's feet, the hood, the rest of the stuff, and brought it down. We dumped it all in the trash buggy on top of Caroline's body. We dumped the rags in there and stuck the mop down beside her. We tore up some paper towels and wadded them and put those on top of the rags so the blood couldn't be seen. We rolled the buggy into the closet and closed the door.

By this time Belinda could stand, but she couldn't talk, and she seemed confused and not altogether with it. Booger took his rifle apart and put it in the toolbox, toted the box out the door, went out to the parking lot and got our car. He called on the cell phone when he was near.

We went out the door toward the circle drive, which was close by. The shrubs near the clock tower door gave a little protection, but we finally had to walk out from behind them. Belinda was in a dirty white bathrobe, and she walked as if she were drunk. All it took was one inquisitive eye and we could be done for. I wasn't up to shooting a student or a campus cop to make sure we got away. They caught us, they caught us. But fate worked for us. The crowd was involved in Judence's talk. I looked over my shoulder to check it out. The speech was still going on, and I heard some clapping, and a roar of agreement from some of the crowd. All I could see were the backs of listeners. I couldn't see Judence, but I could hear him over the microphone. He was talking about equal rights and how the school the white community wanted to build was a way to bring back segregation. Some people were saying “Amen” and “Right on, brother,” and stuff like that.

I put my arm around Belinda and we reached the drive as Booger pulled the car around. We got in and he drove us out of there.

         

We were back at my place and Belinda was on the couch. She had gone right out, but I could hear her breathing, smooth and normal. Booger and I were sitting in chairs. He had a beer and I had nothing.

“Tonight, when things are settled down,” Booger said, “I'll go back and get the buggy with Caroline in it and dump the body.”

“What if someone finds her first?” I said.

“We'll hope they don't,” Booger said. “She's been missing, so we'll keep her missing if we can. The other building, not so easy to move around in. We'll have to leave Stitch. I kind of like that. I think it's funny.”

“And they get to see what a great shot you made,” I said.

“That too.”

Booger looked at Belinda, said, “You know, she gets that metal shit out of her mouth, she'll be one hell of a looker.”

“She's one hell of a looker now,” I said.

“What say I go get us something to eat, some burgers or something?”

“Sure, but bring some yogurt, or ice cream. Belinda may not be up to chewing.”

“Got you, bro,” and Booger was gone.

I went in the bathroom and took off my cut-up shirt and looked at my wounds. A couple of them were pretty bad rips, but nothing had caught too deep except for the back wound, and I had a lot of muscle across my shoulders, so I was going to be all right there. I did need some stitches, and I had the stuff to do that and Booger knew how. It would hurt like hell, but we could make it without seeing a doctor. Main thing was to keep out infection. I took a quick hot shower, and when I got out there was blood running down the drain.

I patted myself dry, threw the bloody towel away and did some awkward work with peroxide, alcohol and bandages. The one in the small of my back was hell. I couldn't get it just right. I finally managed to get a square bandage to stick back there. It quickly soaked up blood.

I took it off and started over, and this time there was less blood. I got an old dark shirt out of the closet and put it on. That way blood wouldn't show so bad, and in a way, it would help serve as a second bandage.

When I was dressed, I went back into the living room. All of a sudden Belinda sat up on the couch. She looked at me. Her eyes were big as headlights.

She said something that didn't sound like any word I knew.

I sat by her on the couch. I took her hand, said, “Take it easy. It's over with.”

Belinda shook her head. She tapped her left hand with her right, her fingers set like they were holding a pen. I got her a pen and some paper.

She wrote: “Caroline had a little girl. I think she did something to her.”

“I don't get it,” I said. “I know she had a child. We both know that.”

Belinda shook her head, wrote furiously: “A little girl. She was at the house with us. Caroline said to me you had to know how to destroy the things you love if you want to be strong.”

“The child was with her?”

Belinda nodded. She tore a page off the pad and wrote anew: “They drugged the little girl. They drugged me. I woke up in the clock tower, the rope around my neck.”

“Where is the little girl?”

She wrote in very large letters: “IT'S JAZZY, CASON.”

         

Belinda pulled on one of my T-shirts and a baggy pair of my pants, wore some of my house shoes. I made sure I had the .38, and we took the motorcycle, Belinda clinging tightly to me as I rode as fast as common sense and a fear of arrest for speeding allowed. As we rode it came together for me. Caroline had moved in right next to my parents. Probably saw the listing in the paper, and as everyone thought she was dead, she decided, wouldn't it be funny to rent a place next to Jimmy's parents. Hell, maybe it was just coincidence, but thinking about Caroline and Stitch, and their love for games, I doubted it.

Gregore, he was Daddy Greg. The one my dad had knocked the shit out of. And Stitch. He was the new daddy. Somehow, perhaps for no other reason than to bond with Jazzy for a while, before making that ultimate sacrifice Caroline thought made her strong, she took the little girl in, like fattening a calf for the slaughter.

When we got to Jazzy's house, we pulled into my parents' drive. I parked the bike in the carport. Belinda was getting along better now, and her voice, though metallic-sounding, was coming back. I climbed up in the tree first, but the platform was empty except for a cloth doll that had been faded by rain and sun.

Next we went to Jazzy's house and I touched the front door with my shoulder and it moved; it hadn't been locked or completely closed. I pulled the .38 and went inside, Belinda behind me.

The living room was void of furniture except for a couch, a foldout chair, and a television, a DVD player and a stack of DVDs. There were all manner of pizza cartons and papers lying about. There were stacks of books.

We went into the kitchen. The stove was six inches deep in grease and there were flies in the grease, some of them dead and stuck there. The sink was full of dishes and the place smelled. The trash can was overrun with paper plates and paper cups and boiling with roaches.

On the table was a manila envelope. I picked it up and looked inside. A DVD.

I didn't look at the note or touch the DVD. I was certain without looking and putting my fingerprints all over everything what it was. Caroline and Dinkins. Caroline figured after Belinda was done in, she'd come back here with Stitch and forge my brother's name to a note and mail it off to whoever she thought was a good idea, make sure my brother would be discovered as the source. That would give Dinkins his pig sticking and Jimmy his too.

I went out of there carrying the envelope.

The bathroom was a nightmare.

The place was empty. I was looking in a bedroom that had nothing but a mattress on the floor and a pile of sour-smelling clothes nearby when I heard Belinda try to yell to me. It was more of a squeak.

She was in another bedroom, a smaller one, and when I went in there I saw that there was a little blow-up mattress and a blanket on the floor, and there were a few toys, mostly junk from fast-food places. On the floor under a curtained window was a square line of dust where something like a trunk had sat.

“Oh, shit,” Belinda said, her voice still a rasp. “Caroline kept me in here with Jazzy.”

I had to lean close to understand her. She held her throat with her hand as she talked.

“They kept pills in me and Jazzy,” she said. “Sometimes Caroline came in to talk. Gloating.”

Belinda cleared her throat, strained out some more information. “She told me about all their plans. It was horrible, Cason. Just a game to them. She said it took courage to do things that hurt people you love. But she didn't love anyone, Cason, not really. Maybe Stitch.”

Belinda swallowed, took a deep breath. “She said she had the strength to destroy anyone, even blood of her blood, bone of her bone…So, where is Jazzy?”

I shook my head. Belinda's little speech had almost taken her voice away again.

“When did you see her last?” I said.

“This morning. They came in and gave me pills, and they gave Jazzy something to drink. By the time they had me tied up and we left, Jazzy was asleep, here on the air mattress. A minute later and I was nearly out of it. I didn't come awake until we got to the clock tower and I was tied up. They wanted me awake. They knew their drugs.”

I glanced at the square of dust, pointed at it. “Was something here?”

“A toy box,” Belinda said. “But there was hardly anything in it. I think it came with the house. That little girl, they wouldn't let her leave the room after they grabbed me. Made her stay in here. She comforted me, Cason. She didn't know what was going on, not really, but she tried to make me feel better. Shit, my throat hurts.”

“We have to go next door, right now. Get a shovel from the carport.”

“What?” Belinda said.

“Come on,” I said. “No time to explain.”

         

From my parents' house we walked swiftly to the graveyard amongst the trees, by the creek. I was carrying a shovel, and Belinda had my mother's trowel. I had put the envelope in the car.

I said, “Poe's ‘Premature Burial.' Caroline's favorite story. The box missing. Jazzy gone. And Jazzy told me she and her mom used to come here and lie down on the graves.”

“Oh, no, Cason,” Belinda said.

We came to a line of thick oaks and hickories, and just below them were the graves. Some of them had old markers, some markers had recently been replaced. A few graves were nothing more than rough spots on the ground. Along the creek there were some willow trees growing, and there were more graves closer to the creek. An explosion of thrushes broke from the willows and fluttered against the leaves of the nearby oaks and hickories and took to the sky.