Payton Hidden Away (27 page)

Kristie drags her heel through
the sand, drawing a crooked line. She studies the line a moment before backing
up, taking a timid step back. “It’s only sand,” she says. She slides her foot
side to side, pushing sand back and forth. “Didn’t they have cement floors back
then?”

“Sometimes,” I
answer. “Not always. Back then, they didn’t always pour a basement floor. They
were usually sand. Or dirt.”

She looks
around, but eventually, her eyes settle on me. “Why did you bring me down
here?”

“It’s
complicated.”

“There is no
it
,
Tony.”

Instead of
answering, I return to my shovel, shifting it to the other hand and starting to
dig, feeling numb. This is it. There’s no going back. No matter what, this is
where it ends.

“Talk to me.”

I keep digging,
feeling queasy. First I move the coal, tossing it to the side. Then I start on
the sand. One shovelful of decrepit earth after another, I build a hill of
dirty sand. Finally, after a few minutes, the shovel hits something solid, and
I stop.

“Oh my god,”
Kristie whispers. “Oh my god.”

Rain water is
running in thin streams along the walls, turning to puddles pooling on the
sandy floor. I shovel away the remainder of the heavy soil before crouching
down and wiping the loose sand from the remnants of a rug wrapped around the
form of what appears to be a body. When I look up, she’s still standing, but
she looks wobbly in her stance as though she might topple.

“That’s not
her,” she whispers. “That’s not her.”

I gently pull
the rug from the loose sand and carefully set it down—half in and half out of
the hole.

“That’s not
her,” Kristie repeats. “Please, Tony, please don’t let that be her.”

I begin to
unravel the rug. I’m scared. It’s been so long—I was so young. Everything was
so different then than it is now. I take hold of the top corner and pull it
gently downward to reveal the gray bone of a human skull and what remains of
the blond hairs still clinging to it.

Kristie breaks
down, her entire body wracked with sobs. For years her family believed Joanne
had simply hitch-hiked her way out of town and disappeared. It was easier to
believe she just wanted to start over. After ‘the letter,’ they even convinced
themselves she was living happily in California, biding her time until the time
was right to come home. Nobody wanted to believe she had been killed. More than
that, nobody believed she might still be here.

Kristie is
wailing, her voice filling the room, her pain amplified. She slides against the
wall to the ground, but when she lifts her eyes to me, they’re red with hatred.
She blames me, and maybe she should. After all, I’m responsible.

I cover Joanne’s
skull with the rug and sit down on the floor, my back to her. “I don’t know
what happened that day,” I whisper.

Kristie sneers.
“What do you mean you don’t know? You knew! You knew all along!”

“You and Joanne
had a fight.”

“Yes, we had a
fight,” Kristie snaps. “Over you! You were leaving town, and you said you
wanted to patch things up with Ritchie before you went.”

I nod, my back
still turned.

“But that’s not
where you went, was it?”

“No.”

“And why not? Did
you want to
fuck
my sister? Did you want to fuck her right before you
killed her?”

This time I turn
to her. “That’s not what happened.”

“I thought you
couldn’t remember what happened?”

“I remember
enough. I remember enough to know that I went looking for her.”

She just sits
there, tear-stained cheeks.

“I wrecked my
bike,” I continue. “I got hurt pretty bad trying to find her, but she found me
first. That’s how we wound up here.”

Kristie smiles
through her tears. “And why not? Route 89 is the only way out of town. Isn’t
that what you and Ritchie always said?”

“That’s what the
whole town used to say.”

“So, how’d you
do it? Strangle her? Maybe hit her over the head with a shovel?”

“That’s not what
happened.”

“How did you
kill my sister?” she asks.

“I didn’t kill
your sister.”

“How did you
kill my sister!?”

I stare at the
soiled floor. “I didn’t kill your sister.”

“You said you
were responsible. How can you be responsible and not—”

“Ritchie showed
up.”

Instantly, her
sobs subside.

“He found out,”
I whisper.

“Found out?” she
asks, doubt drifting into the room. Things quiet down. I can hear the rain
outside, and I can hear the water trickling into the house, pooling in the
dirt. The sounds are peaceful. Even the smells are natural and serene, but
we’re sitting in an abandoned basement with the corpse of a seventeen year-old
girl. Kristie sniffs, wipes her nose on her sleeve and then wipes her eyes with
her fingers before looking at me. “Found out what?”

Joanne leaps through the broken
window, taking the last shards of broken glass with her. I turn back to
Ritchie, and his eyes are on her, not me. I know him. He’ll go after her if I
don’t do something. He loves her, but it’s not real love. It’s possession, and
if he feels he’s lost her, he’ll hurt her. It won’t even occur to him what he’s
done until it’s too late.

Ritchie takes a
step forward, but I block his path. He’s twice my size, but I have to do
something. I at least have to try. My face is still bleeding, my hands
hamburger, but I know that look in his eyes. He’s not about to just let this
go.

“She’s gone,” I
say. “It’s over.”

“Nothin’s over,”
he grumbles.

“Let it go, man.”

“You don’t tell
me what to do,” he thunders. “You don’t tell me nothin’! You don’t—”

“Goddamn it,
Ritchie! NO!”

Ritchie looks
like he wants to say something, but he stops suddenly. His eyes shrink to
slits. His body recoils a bit, and he grinds his teeth, one of his eyes
unwillingly twitching. “Why you always—”

“Fuck you!” I shout,
the words like sand between my teeth. “Let me ask you something. You think you
got what it takes, big guy?”

“You just tryin’
to irrigate me?”

“The word you’re
looking for is ‘irritate,’ you stupid moron.”

He frowns. “I’m
just…”

“Well, I’m not,
and if you want her, you gotta go through me first.”

Ritchie
scrunches up his face. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“I love you like
a brother, Rich, but this ain’t happenin’.”

Ritchie wavers,
hovering. His eyes are dark, his lips pinched so tightly it’s like they’re not
even there.

“Ritchie?”

And just like
that, he responds. His fist comes out of nowhere, cracking me across the jaw
and knocking me flat. I hit the floor hard, dizziness consuming me along with
enough pain to make me forget about my raw hands. I expect him to start kicking
me next, but he’s gone, retreating through the foyer and out the front door.
He’s already trotting down the steps and heading into the knee-deep grass
leading toward the barn. There’s blood seeping into my mouth, and my jaw feels
broken, but Joanne’s in trouble, and I’m all she has left.

Ritchie’s lost
it. His mental capacity for deciphering between reality and fantasy has been
deteriorating for some time, but I ignored the signs. I sensed it that day when
he took on those guys in the Walmart parking lot and again that day in his bedroom
with his dad. He’s been slowly slipping away, consumed with the arrogance of
his own invincibility, but I figured he’d just implode—maybe mentally breakdown.
I figured he’d meltdown and go catatonic. But he didn’t. He’s become
this
.
Joanne has metamorphosed from his crush into his opponent. She’s the devil
taunting him—punishing him. I doubt if he even sees her as human anymore. I’ve
seen schizophrenia, but this isn’t schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or
borderline personality. This is something else. When he started that brawl on
the baseball field, I saw it plainly in his eyes. It’s not giddiness or glee.
It’s pain.

I start crawling
toward the door. There’s blood on my tongue, and I feel like crying or sleeping
or pretty much anything other than chasing after him, but if I don’t do
something, Joanne will die. The best I can do is crawl through the room before
using a chair to hoist myself to my feet. I make it only a few steps into the
kitchen before collapsing with dizziness.

“Come on,” I
whisper, forcing myself to keep going, forcing myself up again. I’m wavy on my
feet, but I manage to stumble from the house while bracing myself with the
assistance of the handrail as I make my way down the steps into the tall grass.
Suddenly without support, I go tumbling, rolling like a wrecking ball. Gasping,
I pick myself up and crawl toward the screams coming from the barn. My arms
feel like dead-weights. Everything is running in tear-colored streams. I fumble
face first into the dirt, but I pick myself up again and continue forward. A
few more feet, and I right myself into a standing position. My legs are
rubbery, but they’ll hold. They have to hold.

The barn.

I stumble
inside, greeted instantly with a scene my mind can’t quite wrap itself around.
Ritchie has Joanne bent over a bale of hay. He’s got one of her arms pinned
behind her back, and with his free hand, he’s yanking on her belt, trying to
get her pants down.

“Get out!” he
shouts.

She’s
sobbing—screaming. Instead of getting out, I stumble his way, scooping a
pitchfork from the hay. I know I can’t beat him, but I have to try.

I have to.

He lets go and
steps toward me, his eyes wild. “What you got? You gonna fight me? You gonna
fight Ritchie? You gonna fight Ritchie Hudson?”

Fight him? Not
hardly. Using his own words, I’m gonna kill him, skin him, filet him and
fuckin’ eat him. I level the pitch fork, an overwhelming feeling of hatred
filling me like a heavy chill. He was supposed to be in love with her. He was
supposed to protect her. But this isn’t love. This is possession.

“Come on, Triple
A,” Ritchie growls as he crouches down. It’s the same stance he took when the
benches cleared the other night, and that glint in his eye is the same too.
“Show me what you got,” he hisses.

I swing, but he slaps
the pitchfork aside, steps in and swings a sharp fist that brings searing pain
and unwanted tears. I fall backward, the pitchfork flying from my grip. I hit
the sand and recoil into a defensive position, but Ritchie is already on top of
me, kneeing me sharply in the ribs. Again, and again and again until I can’t
breathe. One more kick to the face, and I see a flash of white, the stench of
dirt and dust and decay oddly visceral. I roll over to shield myself, but he’s
gone, his footsteps falling away. I’m alone. He’s gone.

He’s gone after
her.

The barn door
squeaks on its dry hinges, a soft summer breeze drifting into the quiet barn
where I’m left lying on the floor. Lifting my face from the dirt, the sun is
bleeding through the cracks with sharp beams, dust particles floating
listlessly in the thin shafts of light. It’s quiet in here—peaceful. Too
peaceful. It should be a lazy afternoon, but he’s still out there, and so is
she.

I get to my feet
and make a mad, stumbling dash for the door before tumbling face first into the
dirt. I use my arms to swim for the door, spitting sand and blood and hay from
my mouth. I use the swinging door to pull myself up, but I only make it a few
steps before sinking to my knees, gasping for air. The farmhouse is to my
right, the tall grass swaying as if dancing, the sun burning the world around
me.

Squinting, I
collect myself and again struggle to my feet. I stumble through the tall grass,
crawling at times, muddling my way toward the house where I trip on the steps.
I crawl along the wooden planks into the living room. Then I crawl to the
couch, hoisting myself up, wiping my ruined face on the sleeve of my ruined
shirt. It’s the same couch she and I made out on. The same couch. That was
minutes ago, but it feels like another lifetime.

Joanne.

I can’t hear
her. I can’t hear anything other than the sound of insects outside. I spit
another wad of blood and use the couch as balance to get to my feet. Drifting
along the wall, I make my way into the kitchen. The cellar door is wide open,
and even though it seems quiet down there, there’s something evil drifting
upward that greets me like a breath of cold air. So, I start down, wobbly on my
feet as I brace myself against the loose railing.

Reaching the
basement floor, I look around. The door into the coal room is open, and
Ritchie’s inside, standing still, head bowed, his back to me. And he’s not
alone. He’s hovering over a body. A body that isn’t moving. Joanne. She’s lying
still, her head cocked sharply to the side and a stream of blood running from
both her nose and mouth.

“Ritchie,” I
whisper. “What happened?”

He sniffles,
draws a few sharp breaths and clenches his fists. “I was her last love,” he
mumbles. “Not you.” He wipes his eyes. “I loved her last.”

“What did you do?”
I choke. I can barely stand. “Did you kill her?”

He doesn’t
answer. He doesn’t even turn. He just stands there, a hulk of a man.

“Jesus Christ,
Ritchie, you killed her. You fucking killed her?”

Now he turns,
his eyes flashing. “And you’re going to bury her.”

I shake my head,
taking a step back. “No way, man. I won’t do it.”

“You already done
it,” he says. “You’re responsible.” Tears are rolling over his cheeks, but he
doesn’t look sad. He looks angry. He tosses me the shovel, and I react
defensively by curling into a ball. The shovel bounces off my shoulder and
settles in the sand. I look at the shovel and then the body of the girl lying
dead on the floor.

It’s happening.
It’s real.

Just a little
while ago I was laughing with Kristie and Joanne and Travis. Two hours later, I
was making out with Joanne here in this house. Ten minutes after that and she’s
dead. She’s dead, and my life is ruined.

Ritchie nods
toward the shovel lying at my feet. “You bury her,” he says gruffly. “That’s
how we stay brothers.”